


All is Fair in Love and Football

by graciegirl2001



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Slow Burn, Trigger warnings:, cheerleading au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28840794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graciegirl2001/pseuds/graciegirl2001
Summary: The first time George Vincent meets Dream, he is passed out on the grass outside Sapnap’s house in nothing but his boxers, the beer can in his hand leaking into the dirt.Charming.In which George is the captain of the cheer team, Dream is an up and coming football star, and George spends a great deal of time avoiding said up and coming football star like the plague.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 339
Kudos: 1359





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I finally bit the bullet and decided to partake in this fun, self indulgent AU. I don't have a proper update schedule yet, but I'm hoping to get a new chapter out at least once every two weeks. There are some possible trigger warnings, so please read the tags. 
> 
> Additionally, my knowledge of cheerleading and football is limited, so bear with me. I have some friends who will be helping me out throughout to keep things realistic, but hopefully you're here for some good DNF more than a 100% accurate sports story.
> 
> Make sure to subscribe if you'd like to see more, and consider leaving a comment! Feedback is always appreciated. If you'd like to come yell at me you can find me at @blockmenbrainr0t on Tumblr. (I will be posting updates there as well.
> 
> Lastly, keep in mind that is more of a representation of the CC’s personas, (used to tell a story) rather than an exact portrayal of real life people. Regardless, if any of them express discomfort at being shipped or having fan content created about them, I’ll take this down right away.

The first time George Vincent meets Dream, he is passed out on the grass outside Sapnap’s house in nothing but his boxers, the beer can in his hand leaking into the dirt. 

Charming.

At the time, George had been on his way out of the house, the pounding migraine in his skull driving him far away from the party goers. 

“You sure you don’t want to stay a bit longer?” Karl had shouted over the terrible EDM music blasting through the hallways. “I’m sure we can raid the cabinets for some ibuprofen.” 

George merely shook his head. “I’ve got to go home and study anyway. This is just an excuse to actually be responsible for once.” 

The party had been a bad idea in the first place. George hardly knew this Sapnap guy hosting it- some random underclassmen football jock apparently- and he was fully aware of the early morning practice, and biology test looming over him tomorrow. Bad took the easy way out by repeating his mantra of “I don’t do parties.” But with the promise of free drinks and a little reprieve from the constant stress plaguing him, George allowed Karl and Quackity to convince him with little effort. 

In the end, the beer was shitty, Sapnap’s taste in music was terrible, and Quackity had disappeared an hour ago to get snacks and hadn’t returned. The comfortable buzz in George’s head evolved quickly into a miserable headache a few drinks in, and he longed desperately for the comfort of his bed, and a cool cloth over his eyes. 

And now there was this fucker- with his impossibly long leg slung over the porch right where George needed to walk. The guy looked altogether pathetic, his shaggy, blondish brown hair tossed every which way, with clumps of grass and dirt woven in. George tripped over him in his rush to leave the crowded building, calling out in surprise as his foot caught the other man’s ankle. Ordinarily, he wasn’t this clumsy, but the alcohol in his system was making everything sway. He managed to steady himself before hitting the ground.

At the sudden contact, the lump in the grass grunted and peeked open one eye blearily. A half-conscious, dopey, lopsided smile crossed his face. George might have thrown his empty solo cup at him, had he not feared he would miss and embarrass himself further. 

“Why hello,” Boxers man said, and George rolled his eyes in disgust. This was the last thing he needed tonight.

“Go back to sleep asshat,” he replied with a shake of his head.

Boxers man tried and failed to sit up, instead flopping back on the grass, arms outstretched. “You’re very pretty,” he mumbled with a giggle.

 _“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me,”_ George thought, but flushed ever so slightly despite himself. “And you’re very drunk,” he said back, trying to avoid the startlingly green eyes.

The man looked down at himself, as if realizing his precarious situation for the first time. He had the decency to look sheepish, a deep blush rising to his freckled cheekbones. “Oh.” 

A snort bubbled up within him but he forced it down, schooling his expression to maintain its displeasure. “Yeah oh. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got incredibly boring things to do, and I don’t want you keeping them from me any longer. Good night,” George huffed with curt nod, masking his amusement with annoyance. And he _was_ annoyed, really. But there was something disarmingly charming about this strange naked man that he didn’t care to admit. Still, he stalked off confidently down the front walk, only stumbling once. And though a part of him wanted to, George did not look back to see if the man in the grass watched him leave. 

**********

The game is in its final moments. 

George relishes the buzzing excitement and tension in the air- the roar of the crowd pushing impossibly louder every moment. College students of all varieties lean forward over the bleacher balcony, shouting and stomping their feet. Some have their faces painted with stripes of green and white, others with strips of paint on their bare chests instead, pounding them like apes. George rolls his eyes at the sight, but his lips quirk upward regardless. After all, school spirit is school spirit. On the right side of the front row Quackity and Bad are wedged in between two massive, shirtless men whooping and hollering through plastic megaphones. Quackity shoves one of them after an intense play nearly sends him head first off the platform, shouting an offended “Do you mind??” 

The men don’t respond, and Bad pats him on the shoulder, laughing. George smiles wide from his place on the track, heart surging with fondness. His friends are absolute idiots, but he loves them dearly. Bad catches George’s eyes on them and nudges Quackity, inclining his head toward him. They both wave energetically as George lines up for the next formation. 

The cheer team can hardly hear the music over the rumble of the crowd, but they know the routine by heart, not faltering. George glances at Niki to his left, who grins before she goes flying into the air with graceful ease, landing perfectly balanced atop one of the other girls’ hands. The student section cheers, their eyes torn away from the field momentarily. As Niki and the other freshmen girls descend and spread into lines, George claps twice- a sound that is echoed by the rest of the cheer team. His voice rings out clear above the others.

“Take it to the goal, Go! Fight! Win! First and ten let's do it again!”

The chant repeats, getting picked up by the crowd.

_Take it to the goal, Go! Fight Win! First and ten let’s do it again!_

George lines himself up across from Karl, who grins, eyes bright. With a nod, they rock back on one foot, arms extended. In a fluid movement that is nearly second nature at this point, George takes a running start and glides into his first front back handspring. Gravity suspends for a delicious few moments as he rotates one… two… three… times, before tucking midair to land right side up again, arms raised. The crowd applauds, hooting and hollering. 

“Those are my best friends!” Quackity shouts, pointing at George and Karl wildly, while Bad follows with a “Let’s go captain!”

Goerge gives them both an appreciative thumbs up, going to retrieve his pom poms next to Karl’s water bottle. He’s been on the team since freshman year, but this is his first year as captain, and it still feels a little unreal. He had been hesitant to accept the offer from Wilbur a few months ago, but their young, optimistic assistant coach offered nothing but trust and encouragement, easing George’s worries. 

This year their team was strong. Well, they had always been strong, but under George’s leadership, and thanks to the influx of talented underclassmen, Northview University’s cheer program was looking to be one of the best in the country. 

Karl joins him on the sidelines, his cheeks pink with exertion and excitement. “You think we’re gonna cinch it?” He asks, taking a long drink and nodding toward the football field, where the team is currently in a quick time out. 

“Of course,” He replies, fishing for his own water bottle. “We’ve got it in the bag.” 

“The score is tied George.”

“I’m aware.”

“That’s not necessarily ‘in the bag.’”

“It’s called believing.”

A whistle blows and a referee waves towards the Northview side. Times up.

The clock on the scoreboard returns to the glowing red 00:15. The coach, Schlatt, yells one last direction, tapping his clipboard, and the players head back to the field, slapping each other on the back as they go. 

A voice crackles over the loudspeaker announcing the end of the time out. “We’ve got a tied game folks here in the fourth quarter, with a score of twenty-six to twenty-six. Northview has the ball, but will they be able to make something out of it in the limited time left?”

_S-U-C-C-E-S-S,_

_That's the way we spell success_

_V-I-C-T-O-R-Y,_

_Victory, victory, that's our cry!_

Both teams line up, the floodlights glinting off their helmets. They shift with anticipation and the crowd repeats the chant with the cheer squad. 

George used to hate football. It was always his older brothers’ and father’s thing. They used to gather in the living room swathed in scarves and hats and sweatshirts for their favorite team (no matter the weather) shouting and celebrating into the late hours of the night. The first few times he joined them, but quickly grew bored. When you’re the youngest, no one bothers to pause and explain the rules, or tell you which team to root for. Hell, half the time he couldn’t even tell the jersey’s apart with his colorblindness. So he fell into other interests to pass the time: piano, reading, gymnastics. He picked them all up quickly, but couldn’t manage to get his older brothers to match his excitement at mastering a perfect pike. So he sat back, and turned the music up louder on football Sunday’s. 

Cheer changed all of that. Well… not all of it. He still could barely tell the jerseys apart, and he didn’t understand what possessed one to paint your nipples as a way to support your team, but with cheer came an understanding of the basic rules of football. Once he knew _why_ everyone either jumped for joy or started cussing each other out at an interception, the game became far more enjoyable. And although George would rather die than join the spirited throng of the student section in his free time, he found himself looking forward to the school wide football games more and more. There was something truly special about hundreds of people waiting with baited breath, collectively hoping and praying a couple of meatheads could catch a stuffed pigskin.

Ok, so maybe he didn’t yet possess the same reverence for football the rest of the Vincent family had. But he was learning. 

With one grunted word from the quarterback, they are off to the races. Sweaty bodies collide, ramming into each other with equal measures exhaustion and determination. Meanwhile, the clock ticks down continually, an ever constant reminder of what is on the line with these last few plays. George rustles his pom-poms, eyes tracking the movements of the players. They have fought tooth and nail to get this far up the field in the last bit of the game, but without a big play now, there will be no time to push the rest of the way. That’s when George sees him. A flash of movement, one body darting past the others up the field along the sideline. George squints. A…green jersey, yeah. One of their own. There are several others in pursuit, but Number 22 has a lead on them. George feels his heart pound faster, sensing his teammates’ do the same. This could be it. It all depends on if they see the breakthrough in time. Wright, Northview’s star quarterback dances backward, looking for an opening. 

_There._

The football tears through the air with pinpoint accuracy, sailing up the field. The entire stadium holds their breath. The ball descends, curving lower, and lower… and into the hands of 22, who crashes to the ground in the endzone, the football safe in his grasp.

_Touchdown._

The crowd goes wild, and George whoops along with them.

22\. He runs through the list of players in his mind, trying to match a name to the number. Was it Johnson? No- that was Johnson over there on the sidelines with his helmet off. Maybe… Foster? But Foster is shorter than this guy. 

The announcer’s voice booms, “Touchdown for Northview thanks to an amazing catch by Number 22: Dream Bennett!”

Oh. Of course.

In the endzone, Dream holds up the ball in celebration, waving to the adoring fans in the stands. 

George huffs and rolls his eyes, the joy and adrenaline coursing through him dampening somewhat. It would be that cocky bastard. 

He hasn’t talked to Dream since that night at Sapnap’s party months ago, and doesn’t intend to. Based on the crowd Dream hangs with, he’s just another stupid, oafish asshole. And besides the nasty friends, he has that terrible first impression to go off of. No, George prefers to spend time with people who don’t strip and get blackout drunk in front of people’s garden gnomes. And... flirt with random strangers. 

But with some time between him and Dream, George has since come to the conclusion that what happened that night really wasn’t even flirting at all. After all, Dream at the time was so intoxicated he couldn’t even stand. And, just by nature of his craft as a football jock, he’s probably painfully straight. So really, if he thought about it, Dream’s offhand comment was worse than flirting with a stranger. It was mocking. Harassment. George hates him for it still. 

But of course he can get away with shit like that because he’s _Dream Bennet_. The golden boy. Upcoming MVP for the football team. Resident heartbreaker. The list goes on. George doesn’t need a sober conversation with the guy to know to stay clear. So he does. When he goes to parties with the rest of the cheer team he sticks close to Karl and Niki, ducking into a new room if he sees a familiar head of wavy dirty blond hair. He’s not about to give Dream the chance to ask if he liked seeing him stripped down last fall. 

The last four seconds on the clock go by in a flash, and before George can even process it, the game is over. Final score: 33-26. He hadn’t even noticed them kick the field goal. 

The spectators storm the field and George curses himself for not getting out early like he usually does. As he is in the process of grabbing his bag, an arm slings around his shoulder. 

“Gogyyy,” Quackity says, drawing out the last syllable of his nickname, and George shakes off the embrace, rolling his eyes goodnaturedly. “Hello there Big Q.” 

Quackity chuckles and tweaks his nose, then goes to pounce Karl as he approaches. Karl yelps, dropping his duffel in surprise as Quackity hops onto his back. He struggles to hold him up before they both collapse into a fit of giggles. 

“What are we gonna do with these muffinheads,” Bad mutters, leaning on one hip by George as he collects his things. George grabs a hoodie from inside his bag and tugs it over his head, letting out a muffled “They’re hopeless.”

Bad snickers and Quackity and Karl come bounding back to them.

“You guys killed it, as usual,” Quackity finally says, out of breath. “I’m so proud of my favorite little cheerleaders,” he ruffles the hair on both of their heads, and they both lean away, protesting loudly. 

“Agreed. I can tell you all have been working hard. Games just wouldn’t be the same without you,” Bad adds. 

“Speaking of the game,” Karl perks up, eyes wide. “You all saw that catch at the end right? That was crazy!” 

“Yeah! I’m sure that guy who caught it is riding high right now. I wonder what it must be like to single handedly win the homecoming game in the last fifteen seconds with the most dramatic play this school has seen all year...” Quackity overlaps wistfully. 

“It wasn’t really singlehanded. Wright was the one who made the throw,” George replies evenly.

“Aw screw that guy, he’s on his way out. Hell, replace him with 22 and watch us really win the championship.” 

George tries not to let their excitement get under his skin too much. Dream’s five minutes of fame will blow over soon enough. It happens all the time in sports. Soon enough he’ll just be another sweaty body to throw out on the turf.

“Hey, I’m gonna go congratulate Sap, come with,” Karl says, tugging on George’s arm. He sighs reluctantly but allows himself to be pulled back up to his feet. “Okay, but it better be quick; getting out of the parking lot is gonna be impossible soon enough.”

“I’ll hurry. We’ll be out of here in a jiffy,” Karl promises eagerly. “Q? Bad? You wanna come?” 

Quackity shakes his head. “Nah, we’re gonna go grab some Mcdonald’s. Wanna meet up when you’re through?”

Karl looks to George and he nods, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Sounds like a plan. We’ll be there.” 

And with that, Quackity is gone, Bad in tow. Karl gives him a nudge. “Off we go!”

He leads the way through the crowd, easily slipping through the masses. George stays close behind, as to not get lost. Groups congregate on every square inch of the artificial grass, talking loudly over each other. It used to be highly overwhelming, but George is used to it by now (though he normally stays clear of the post-game crowds if at all possible). 

While George makes a point to avoid most of the football players, Sapnap, as it turned out, was actually pretty cool. He had properly gotten to know him through Karl this year, and though Sapnap was obnoxious, he was relatively down to earth and fun to be around, (though George still refused to let him have the aux- Sapnap as a person: not half bad. Sapnap’s playlist: still unbearable). They didn’t hang out often, but George enjoyed the times Karl brought him over for games and drinks. 

A few of the girls from the cheer team wave at them in passing as they snake their way through the throngs of people. George and Karl offer smiles and waves in return, congratulating their friends on another great performance. Others stop to say hello to Karl- people George hasn’t even seen calling out his name in greeting. How he manages to have a social life on top of practice and studying, George doesn’t know. 

Finally, they break through a particularly dense cluster and see the back of a familiar white headband. Sapnap is in mid conversation with a few other football players. When he sees them he stops, a wide grin breaking across his face. “My boys!” He exclaims running toward them.

George and Karl both dodge the hug, teasing that they don’t need anymore sweat on their uniforms. 

“Aw c’mon, not even for me? My sweat probably has healing properties or something,” Sapnap says, wiggling his eyebrows.

Karl laughs out loud and George pretends to vomit. 

Once they have composed themselves Karl gives his friend a pat on the shoulder. “For real though, you all played fantastic! Looks like we might even stand a chance against Cedar Peak this year.”

Sapnap pretends to tip his hat and puffs out his chest. “Oh you bet your ass we will. And you guys will send their cheer squad running for the hills.”

“Maybe if this one would actually get to practice on time,” George jabs Karl, who giggles and dances away. 

“Listen, I need my beauty sleep,” he replies, with a fake pout. 

“And I need my team members to quit showing up ten minutes late with a cold brew.”

“Just be glad I get an extra for you, or you’d sleep the whole way through drills.”

George concedes and Karl gives a satisfied chuckle. 

“Anyway, enough about Karl’s coffee addiction Sap. Great job out there, for real. I saw that tackle you made in the third quarter. That was clutch.”

Sapnap scoffs, but beams with pride despite himself. “Naw that was nothing. Wouldn’t have made a dent in the old scoreboard if it wasn’t for this guy right here,” He nudges one of the uniformed figures behind him, who stops their discussion and turns around.

Well _shit_. 

“Dream was the real star of the show,” Sapnap continues, punching the figure in the shoulder.

Catching onto their conversation now, Dream raises his eyebrows. He looks bashful… _a deep blush rising to his freckled cheekbones._

George wants to kick himself. This is ridiculous. Obscene. He shakes the memory from his mind, keeping his eyes focused squarely on Sapnap’s headband. 

“I just got lucky,” Dream insists with a chuckle, elbowing Sapnap. “You’ve got to stop talking me up. You’re just as good as I am, Sap.”

“It’s not just me man, George and Karl were the ones who brought it up,” He says with a shrug, tilting his head towards them, to George’s mortification. 

As if noticing them for the first time, Dream looks up.

His eyes meet George’s. _Startlingly green_. George isn’t sure if he imagines the way Dream’s lip’s part in surprise. He feels like he is falling.

“Oh were they?” He says, eyes still on George. George feels himself burning under his gaze. 

His mind screams to retreat. To “ _Get out_ _before he recognizes you!”_ ( _if he hasn’t already)_. But there are people watching, and he can’t just dip mid conversation. So he stays, nails digging into his palms..

“Uh no actually,” He isn’t sure where the sudden confidence comes from. “We were just talking about Sapnap’s playing. Not yours.” The comment is unnecessary. Mean. But George feels cornered, put under a microscope. And he’s not above fighting for his way out.. 

“Ah. I’m sorry, I must have misheard,” Dream replies, seemingly unbothered. He is still studying George intensely. 

“Ok maybe _I_ was the one swooning over you,” Sapnap concedes. “But I’m sure these fools would have said the same thing.”

Dream ignores him. “George, was it?”

George swallows hard and nods, wanting to disappear.

“I’ve seen you before.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. So he does remember. George’s mind races, desperately trying to come up with an explanation. He was drunk. He barely remembers that night. Does he recall him calling him pretty? No, no, he must have talked to someone else. Different party. He went home before Dream even showed up. Yeah, one of those ought to work. 

But what comes out instead is a strangled, “You have?”

Dream nods, tilting his head to one side. “Yeah…” his face lights up. “Oh I know, you’re the cheer captain, aren’t you!”

Thank the lord almighty. A relieved laugh bubbles up from within George, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Right! Yup! That’s me,” he responds, feeling all the anxiety disperse from his tense muscles. 

Dream grins. “George,” he says, turning the name over in his mouth. “Man, you were amazing out there.”

George blushes. “It’s nothing, really. I just led some chants and flipped around a bit.”

“No, no! Seriously!” Dream shakes his head vigorously. “I’ve watched you perform before, you’re really good.”

“You’ve watched me?”

“I have.” He knows he’s not imagining the tips of Dream’s ears turning red. “A lot.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well.” George’s throat feels dry. “Um, thanks.”

The silence stretches on impossibly long, and he can feel Karl’s eyes on him. He suddenly wishes he were anywhere else. Luckily, another player comes and tackles Dream playfully, messing with his hair. “Way to go Bennet,” the man yells, and Dream cackles from the ground, trying to push him off. 

George internally sighs in relief. 

“We should get going,” he says, linking his arm through Karl’s and starting to back up. 

Sapnap gives them a thumbs up. “Alrighty. Thanks for stopping to say hi!”

“See you tomorrow Sap,” Karl replies with a wave. “Great game!” 

Right as they are about to disappear into the safety of the crowd, another voice rings out, and George winces. 

“Hey, uh, nice to meet you George! And Karl!” Dream calls after them. 

“You too,” Karl chirps back, but George tugs him forward, eyes fixed firmly ahead. Once they are safely out of earshot he adds, “C’mon George, there was no need to be rude.”

“I wasn’t being rude.”

“You were. You ignored him.”

“We were in a hurry.”

Karl huffs. “He seemed pretty nice. You didn’t need to get all weird and defensive. Dream was just being friendly.”

“Friendly my ass.” George grits his teeth. “He was trying to mess with me.”

Karl purses his lips, but doesn’t prod him further until they are in the parking lot. “It looked like something else entirely to me,” he mumbles, as they reach the blue sedan. 

“What was that?”

Karl rolls his eyes, swinging his duffel around to wack George in the back with a loud sigh. “Nothing Gogy. Just quit whining and get me some nuggets.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quackity’s eyebrows shoot upward, and he lets out an amused “Uh oh,” watching closely for George’s reaction. George sinks down, using the back of the couch as cover.
> 
> He is going to kill Karl. He’s going to poison his gatorade tomorrow at practice with zero remorse. It’s decided. 
> 
> “Hi Sapnap! Dream!” Karl exclaims with a smile, welcoming his guests inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! This was originally going to be a bit longer, but I decided to get this chapter out sooner and save the other fun stuff for next chapter. Hope you enjoy some pop off crew movie night fluff! And as usual, feedback is always appreciated!

Just as George predicted, Dream’s miraculous, game-saving catch is all but forgotten in the space of two weeks. Life at Northview returns to normal, and George goes back to ignoring Dream’s existance. Well, trying to at least. There is one unavoidable, glaring problem.

He is at Karl’s apartment for a relaxing night of pizza and movie-binging when there is an unexpected knock at the door. George glances up from the TV screen where he is flipping through Netflix. 

“Is that Bad? I thought he wasn’t coming?” He says, hovering over the recommended category. 

“Maybe he finished that essay early,” Quackity responds absentmindedly, through a mouthful of pizza. 

A muffled sound of surprise is heard from the kitchen and Karl sprints in, sliding across the tile in socked feet. He looks frazzled. 

“Already?” He protests, and George raises an eyebrow.

“You expecting someone?”

Karl’s expression resembles a deer caught in the headlights as he meets George’s eyes. “Ah. Yes. Well, here’s the thing…” he sputters. 

Quackity sits up from his place on the couch, and George turns around fully. “Karl…”

“You have to promise not to get mad.”

Another knock.

“Ooo Karl you’re in trouble…” Quackity says and George throws a pillow at him. 

“You bet your ass he is. Now Karl, answer the question.”

Karl looks frantically at the door. 

George narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”

“Look, I’ll make it up to you later guys, I promise, It was last minute and-”

“Just answer the damn door,” George says with an exasperated huff.

“Okay, okay!” Karl adjusts the collar of his sweater and takes in a calming breath before opening the door.

Two figures stand in the doorway.

Quackity’s eyebrows shoot upward, and he lets out an amused “Uh oh,” watching closely for George’s reaction. George sinks down, using the back of the couch as cover.

He is going to kill Karl. He’s going to poison his gatorade tomorrow at practice with zero remorse. It’s decided. 

“Hi Sapnap! Dream!” Karl exclaims with a smile, welcoming his guests inside. 

George whirls back around to face the screen, palms sweaty as he fumbles with the remote. Anger and panic swirl in his stomach. He scans the titles, not retaining any of them.

His phone buzzes beside him, a text from Quackity appearing at the top. 

_“HAHAHAHA HE INVITED YOUR FAVORITE PERSON-”_

The text cuts off. George ignores it with a subtle shake of his head. 

“Are you sure it’s okay we crash your movie night?” Dream asks.

_No._

“Of course! We’re glad to have you, right guys?” Karl replies, a desperate emphasis on the last two words only George would be able to detect.

“Right,” Quackity says smugly, resting innocently on the top of the couch, peeking over the top. George can hear the grin in his voice. 

“How about the latest James Bond movie Quackity?” George calls loudly tilting his head towards his friend. It’s petty, and he doesn’t care. 

Quackity winces, “Damn dude, I’m right here, no need to shout,” he mutters, then as an afterthought, “You don’t even like action movies George.”

“Well this one is just looking especially good tonight.”

If the unwanted guests notice George dodge Karl’s question, they don’t say so.

Karl grumbles something under his breath, but quickly corrects his demeanor. 

_They’ll probably steal the pizza too._

“Are you guys hungry?”

_Called it._

“Nah, we already ate,” Sapnap says, draping his jacket over a nearby chair. “Thanks for the offer though.”

Another buzz from his phone, this one a text from Karl.

_“Just behave yourself for one night George, geez! I know-”_

George flips the phone over, leaving the message unread. But in his heart of hearts, he knows Karl is right. It’s just one night. Karl has done favors for him a million times over, and rarely asks for help of his own. George is being dramatic. Surely, _surely_ he can ignore Dream for one night. 

Sapnap flops onto the couch with a contented sigh, and Quackity passes him the bowl of popcorn. “So what are we watchin Gogmeister?” He takes a handful.

Dream continues to stand awkwardly in the doorway, varsity jacket slung over his arm. George secretly hopes he ruins it with popcorn grease. 

“I was thinking Harry Potter?” He replies, holding a hand out for the bowl. Instead, Sapnap tosses a single kernel at his face, with a hasty “Catch.”

“You always say Harry Potter,” Karl teases, coming to sit between Sapnap and Quackity with a paper plate full of pizza. 

George shrugs. “It’s a cinematic masterpiece.”

Quackity scoffs. “No it’s not.”

“Ok it’s not. But it still never gets old,” George agrees, lunging for a handful of popcorn. 

Dream perks up, finally leaving the safety of the front entryway. “Which one is your favorite?” He asks, eyes bright. 

The comment catches George off guard. “Prisoner of Azkaban,” he fumbles. 

“I’m impartial to Goblet of Fire,” Dream replies with a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Though Azkaban is probably my second choice- you have good taste.” He reaches the couch and seems to lose his confidence again, shifting his weight nervously. 

“Have you read the books?” George says, unable to hide the challenge in his voice.

Dream laughs, not catching on to the thinly veiled disdain. “Too many times to count,” he says. “I left my copies at home with my sister when I moved out though. She made a special request even though half of them are missing the covers at this point.”

George is at a loss. He stutters out an, “Oh,” feeling vaguely guilty. Quackity lets out something that sounds like a snort, but after a sharp glare from George he covers it with a cough. 

“Well I don’t care what we watch,” Sapnap says, leaning back and snuggling into the old leather. “You guys can just pick something.” He tilts his head back to look at Dream behind him. “Uh… are you gonna sit?”

Dream turns pink and swallows hard. “Oh! Yeah. I just… yeah.” He eyes the remaining space on the couch next to George.

George mentally kicks himself for not claiming a spot in the middle sooner. Dream catches his eye by accident and looks away, twisting his jacket in his hands. 

“I promise George doesn’t bite,” Karl adds, though he doesn’t sound so certain. 

“I know, I know,” Dream replies with a chuckle, and shuffles into the living room. He sits wedged against the armrest on the far end of the cushion- the furthest end from George. The varsity jacket sits in a rolled up ball on his lap. 

George swallows the strange feeling of disappointment that settles into his stomach. It’s ridiculous. He should be glad for the awkward distance between them. It makes ignoring Dream and enjoying the movie easier. If he turns his head just so, it’s like he isn’t even there. 

Karl reaches across Sapnap to steal the remote. After a quick search, he flicks on the movie. George adjusts so his knees and head are subtly turned away from Dream and wraps his arms around a nearby pillow. 

_“Just pretend he isn’t there,”_ he thinks to himself, blinking hard. _“It’s just a normal movie night.”_

Shockingly, the mental affirmations do not help in the slightest. As _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ rolls into its opening scene, George cannot deny the fact that he is hyper aware of Dream’s presence inches away from him. He feels hot all over, hesitant to move or even breathe in fear he’ll accidentally brush against an arm or a leg or an elbow. Dream stays equally still, head frozen stiffly toward the screen. They sit like statues, all tense muscles and locked jaws. But as the movie continues, George’s neck and shoulders begin to ache, and he ever so slowly allows himself to relax into the cushions. Dream follows suit, and George thinks he hears him let out a barely audible sigh of relief under his breath.

Twenty minutes in, things take a turn for the worst and they quote the same line simultaneously. George stops, mid word. Dream’s fake British accent overlapping with his is absolutely dreadful, and before he can stop it, a soft giggle bubbles up in his chest. He claps a hand over his mouth, glancing over at Dream, who already matches his surprised expression. Dream quickly looks back towards the screen with a pleased, shy smile, shaking his head in amusement. 

“That was some weird hive mind shit,” Sapnap remarks, throwing a piece of popcorn at each of them. George catches it and goes to throw it back, stopping midway when he sees Sapnap’s arm wrapped around Karl. A smirk finds his way to his face and he raises an eyebrow. Karl meets his eyes and raises his own eyebrows as if to say, “Not a word.” George shrugs and completes the throw. 

He has had his suspicions about Karl’s crush for a while now, but never explicitly gotten to the bottom of it. George brought up the hidden glances and subtle blushes once, but Karl merely shouted nonsense over him until he stopped the pestering- flushing bright red from head to toe. 

George determines to ask him about it later, but for now he leans back into his seat, pretending he hasn’t seen a thing. 

Another thirty minutes pass, and George allows himself to be sucked into the movie, smiling at all the familiar plot twists and funny lines. He doesn’t even notice Dream going for the popcorn bowl in between them at the same time as he is, both hands reaching out absentmindedly. 

Dream’s hand brushes against his, and he pulls back as if he’s been shocked, face red. A hasty apology bubbles up in his throat as he looks back up, but he stops short at Dream’s cheeky grin. 

“If you wanted to hold my hand, you could have just asked,” the man says innocently, words laced with honey. 

George freezes.

And then he does something stupid. In retrospect, it was entirely unnecessary. A complete overreaction. A tricky, mean-spirited escape route to ward off one offhand comment that likely held no real meaning behind it.

George dumps the entire popcorn bucket on Dream’s head.

The low chatter that had previously filled the room ceases, leaving only the dull sounds of the TV. 

“Uh…” Sapnap remarks. Karl lets out something resembling a horrified squeak. 

George looks at Dream, popcorn nestled in the curls of his hair, forming a pile in the folds of the letterman jacket on his lap. George waits, feeling sick. Waits for Dream to tell him off, or raise his eyes in a nasty look, or shove the rest of the popcorn bowl at his chest and storm off. But he doesn’t.

Dream _laughs_.

The sound is loud and hearty, his breath catching and wheezing at some points. His whole body shakes with mirth. As he does, little popcorn kernels fall from his hair and shoulders onto the couch and tumble to the floor. George is left speechless.

“I deserved that,” Dream finally says and George thinks to himself, _“No, you really didn’t,”_ with wide, bewildered eyes. 

Something inside him feels strangely giddy, and he nearly bursts into his own peals of laughter. 

“I am so sorry, Dream,” Karl sputters, before George can respond. The giddiness is replaced with guilt. _Behave for one night_. Ugh. He hadn’t even managed that.

“It’s quite alright,” Dream replies, picking up one piece of popcorn off of his pant leg and popping it into his mouth. “Still tastes good.” He raises his eyebrows at George with an amused glint in his eye. George blinks and snaps his mouth shut. 

“It was probably Dream’s fault, he’s such a klutz,” Sapnap chuckles, unfazed. 

“It’s true, I am,” Dream replies earnestly, not tearing his gaze away from George’s. George feels his face grow hot. 

Someone turns up the movie and their friends go back to watching as Remus Lupin turns into a werewolf. 

George only snaps out of it when Dream begins to clean up the mess, reaching down to scoop handfuls of popcorn into the bowl. Wordlessly, George joins him. This time, he takes extra care that their hands stay a safe distance apart.

**********

The door clicks shut, leaving the apartment silent for a long moment. George flops back on the couch, lying across it, legs resting on the armrest. He pulls a spare blanket over his head and prepares for an onslaught.

“What the hell was that?”

There it is.

“Uh… I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” Quackity claims, scooting around the corner, but Karl grabs him by the shirt collar. 

“Nope, not so fast.”

Quackity groans. “Why me? I’m innocent here! What did I do?”

Karl huffs, letting go and moving into the living room. He tears the blanket off of George, who smiles up at him sweetly. 

“Yes Karl?”

Karl rolls up the blanket and chucks it back into his face. “You are impossible.”

“Was I not the most welcoming host?”

“You dumped a bowl of popcorn on his head.”

George shrugs. “It was my way of saying ‘I enjoy your company very much- please come again.’”

“I cannot believe you,” Karl replies, throwing his hands into the air. 

George rests the blanket back over his eyes, tucking his hands behind his head. “I don’t know why you’re pointing fingers. How do you know Dream’s hand didn’t just slip?”

“George, can’t you just be serious for five seconds?! You can’t keep pulling this shit!” 

George recognizes the tense lilt in Karl’s tone. He’s passed exasperation now. Time to back off.

“I’m sorry Karl,” he admits, in a low sing-song voice, and Karl seems satisfied. “... But he started it.”

Karl groans and Quackity returns to the couch, sitting on George’s chest and knocking the wind out of him. 

“Quit being a little bitch,” Quackity remarks, reaching under the blanket to pinch him. 

“I’m not!” 

Karl joins them, grabbing a pillow and whacking George with it directly in the face. George tries to block the blows, but Quackity holds him down. 

“Man Q, can you even imagine having a nice evening with some nice new friends with this nimrod around?” Karl says sarcastically, bringing the pillow down again, muffling George’s protests.

Quackity leans back against the couch, George still squirming under him. “I really can’t Karl. George just insists on celebrating nimrod November year round.” 

“I do concur.”

“I can’t breathe Quackity!” George gasps, slapping at him. 

“Should have thought of that before you ruined Karl’s special moment,” he flutters his eyes at Karl, who turns pink and switches the pillow attacks to Quackity. 

“Shut up!”

Quackity snickers and rolls off George. “For real though Karl, what’s the deal with that?” 

Karl sighs and leans against the back of the couch, hugging the pillow to his chest. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” George repeats, looking up at him. Karl’s eyes flit to George’s, then back again. 

“It’s complicated.”

George splays his hands out above him, opening and closing his fingers. “Is it complicated? Or are you overcomplicating things?”

“Both.” 

George smiles softly, not surprised by the response. He hums, and Karl buries his face in the pillow. 

“It seemed to be going pretty alright during the movie to me,” Quackity says with a shrug, patting Karl on the head in passing. 

Karl glances up at them, then flops back down with a groan. “You don’t know that.”

George laughs. “We’re not blind Karl.”

“Even if you are,” Quackity adds. “Just accept the boy was trying to make a move.”

“What if he wasn’t! What if it was just an… I don’t know… friend thing?” 

George lifts a socked foot, poking Karl with his toes. Karl swats at it and George giggles. “Look, you don’t see me snuggling up to you during a movie.”

“Yeah cause you’re too busy snuggling up to Dream.”

George lets out an offended gasp. “I was not, dipshit!”

“You sure as hell were making googly eyes,” Quackity replies and George scoffs.“Not true.”

Karl begins to clean up the room, gathering leftover paper plates and blankets. “I don’t know Gogy,” he says. “I really think he likes you.”

George rolls over. “Yeah right.”

Karl pauses with a light laugh. “I’m serious.”

“The day _Dream Bennett_ falls for me is the day Quackity aces a Calc test,” he retorts with a snort.

“Well I better start studying,” Quackity says with a sly smile.

George blushes. “I _meant_ , that it will never happen.”

“We know what you meant, George,” Quackity and Karl chorus back, rolling their eyes. 

George huffs and Karl offers a smile. “Still think he likes you. And I think that even though you’ll never admit it, you like him. At least a little.”

“I want to replace his football uniform with a miniskirt and pom poms and send him out on the field,” George spits back through gritted teeth.

Quackity wiggles his eyebrows. “You’re into guys in skirts huh?”

“Wha-”

“Hey, hey, no judgement here.”

George screams into a pillow and rolls over miserably.

“I don’t know why I even try with you two.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Keep talking… please,” George says, rubbing a thumb in lazy circles on his shoulder. 
> 
> “About what?” Dream responds calmly, and George shrugs, though he knows Dream can’t see it.
> 
> “Anything.”
> 
> So Dream does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with a whopping 9k chapter for y'all! In retrospect, this probably should have been split into two parts, but oh well. Thank you so much for your support so far, it means a lot. I've got some big plans for this fic so make sure to stick around! As usual, feedback is always appreciated. Enjoy!

Puffy narrows her eyes at George across her desk. She has her arms folded, foot tapping steadily against the floor. Cheer practice was over twenty minutes ago, and George desperately wants to go home and take a nap. But instead he finds himself in Puffy’s office awaiting what is sure to be a colorful response. The sheep bobblehead on Puffy’s desk quivers, its pirate hat dipping up and down atop its fleecy white head.

She steeples her fingers. “Ok George, so let me get this straight: we can’t do your routine next week because…”

George has already prepared this response several times over. “Because it’s not ready.”

Puffy raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “It’s not ready.”

“Nope.”

“... Even though you’ve had it perfected for weeks.”

George leans back in his chair. “Well I wouldn’t say that-”

Puffy lets out an exasperated sigh, resting her hands on the desk. “George…” 

George avoids her eyes, picking at a loose piece of string at the end of his hoodie. 

Puffy’s expression softens. “Look, if I believed you actually needed more time, I wouldn’t pressure you. You know I wouldn’t.” She waits for George to meet her eyes. “But I know you can do this. I know you’ve worked your ass off for it. And I _also_ know you have a tendency to downplay and doubt your abilities. I don’t put up with that on my team. I’m not just going to stand aside and let you sell yourself short. Is that clear captain?”

George’s lips turn up just slightly. “Yes. I understand,” he replies, defeated. He should have known better than to go head to head with Puffy. She is a force of nature, impossible to deter when she sets her mind to something. It’s what makes her such a great coach. 

Puffy is the reason George stuck with cheer in the first place. She had noticed him as a shy sophomore, sneaking into practices with his head down, trying desperately to blend in. 

“Why are you here?” She asked one day, pulling him aside in the hallway outside the gym. 

It caught George entirely off guard, leaving him stuttering with his mouth wide open- eyes darting for an escape route. “Pardon?”

To his further surprise, Puffy grabbed him by both sides of his face. She scanned his expression intensely. “I can’t seem to figure you out George Vincent. You spend every spare moment in that gym. You show up to practice ten minutes early, and push yourself until you’re ready to pass out. You waltzed in here last year with a full ride scholarship and an inch thick folder of recommendations. So what’s holding you back?”

George swallowed hard. He searched his brain desperately for a response. What was holding him back? 

“I mean… my front handsprings could use a little work,” he admitted absentmindedly, mind still racing.

Puffy laughed at that, dropping her hands to George’s shoulders. “No.”

“No?”

She shook her head, choosing her next words carefully. “You... don’t think you deserve to be here, do you George?”

It was like having the wind knocked out of him. The comment might have seemed confrontational, but Puffy’s eyes were honest, searching. It was as if she saw right through him. 

George paused, then responded in a small voice, “Oh. Well I…um…” he steadied himself. “No. I don’t.”

Puffy nodded, her eyebrows furrowed. “I thought so.”

George deflated a little. So she was disappointed in him. He didn’t blame her; it hurt, but he could move past it. He never expected to gain the approval of the coaches in the first place. 

But Puffy looked at him with a strange glint in her eye, sending a flurry of nervous butterflies into his stomach. Finally, she continued.

“Alright George. I’m going to start training you to be a team captain.”

_A what?_

George gaped at her. There must be some mistake. There were hordes of upperclassmen waiting for their chance to move up the ranks and take over as cheer captain, this year and the next. They were all more qualified in every way. Hell, George barely said a word at cheer unless they were on the field!

“Me? Cheer captain?” The words felt foreign in his mouth. “Coach... I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Nope, you are definitely the one for the job,” she said confidently.

George took a few steps back. “Why me? Surely there are better candidates, coach. I’ve only been here two years, and I hardly know what I’m doing.”

Puffy folded her arms. “Because I believe you can do it, George. And I’m not going to leave you be until you see _why_ I believe it.”

The words struck a chord somewhere deep inside. She believed. She believed in _him_. 

“I won’t have you take over any time this year of course,” Puffy continued in an easy tone, as if it was the most normal conversation in the world. “But I want you to start preparing. And.. I want you to start holding yourself to a higher standard.” She smiled brightly. “Because I’m gonna need ya.”

George nodded as if in a trance, humming _“okay,_ ” and a _“yes,”_ at the appropriate times. He barely processed the words coming out. Puffy paused and looked down at her watch.

“Shoot! I’ve got to run, sorry. Let’s talk again tomorrow before practice, okay?”

“Sure. I’ll be there,” George answered, still in disbelief.

Puffy patted him on the shoulder and started backpedalling down the hallway. “Great! Looking forward to it.” Then, with a pointed finger, “Oh, and George? No more holding back, okay?”

He waved, unable to keep the bewildered grin from his face. “Okay.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Puffy gave him one last thumbs up, and disappeared around the corner.

George walked home that day in a daze, with a little extra skip in his step.

“George?”

He snaps back to the present, where Puffy is waiting expectantly. “So the Friday game next week? Halftime?” She asks, head tilted slightly.

_No holding back._

George takes in a deep breath, settling his nerves. He meets Puffy’s eyes. 

“Okay. We’ll do it. We’ll do my routine.”

**********

“Hey idiot, stop staring.” George says, knocking Karl on the head, pulling him out of his not-so-subtle trance. 

Karl jumps. “I wasn’t staring!” He exclaims.

George grins, taking a swig of water. “You most definitely were. Unless you’re planning to join the football team and are just taking notes on their plays.”

Karl scoffs. “You’re hilarious. Truly.”

“Finally some recognition.”

“Oh shut up.”

George plops down on the ground, stretching his legs out in front of him. Karl follows suit with a tired sigh. Out on the field, a whistle blows and the players switch out as Schlatt runs them through a new drill. George watches lazily, picking out Dream, then Sapnap in the crowd. They are on the sidelines, having just finished running the cone obstacle course. Dream pulls his helmet off, running a hand through his hair. Sapnap says something and he laughs.

He feels Karl’s eyes on him and hastily extends himself forward to touch his toes, nose almost brushing his knees, adequately hiding any blush that might have been there. 

_Focus._

“So are you gonna ask him out, or what?” George asks slyly, diverting his attention back to the problem at hand. 

Karl groans. “Georgeee.”

“Karllll,” he choruses back cheekily. 

They are silent for a few moments, stretching one leg at a time. Finally, Karl responds. He lets out a long breath. “I’m not gonna ask him out.”

George gives him an incredulous look. “Why not??”

Karl watches the field for a while. Someone calls for the next group, and Sapnap runs out, Dream slapping him on the back as he does so. George can see the fondness in Karl’s eyes as he tears his gaze away, going back to focusing on the ground. 

“I’m scared,” he says, voice barely audible.

George feels a pang of sympathy. “Of what?”

Karl shrugs. “Of rejection. That it will ruin our friendship and make things weird.” He chuckles. “...That he’ll accept. Then what?”

George scoots closer, nudging Karl’s shoulder gently. “Then… you go on a date.”

Karl smiles shyly in response, not looking up.

“Annnd… you hold his hand.”

Karl shoves him and rolls his eyes. “Stop.”

“And you watch his games, and go to movies together, and make him laugh-”

“George you’re so dumb.”

“And he’ll look into your eyes and say, ‘Karl you are the absolute greatest man alive and I am so in love with you, and I think I would like to kiss you, perhaps,’” George finishes, leaning over and making kissy faces at his friend. Karl pretends to gag and pushes his face away.

George giggles, flopping onto his back, arms outstretched. He sighs contently. “You worry too much Karl. It’s going to be fine.”

Karl curls up, tucking his chin on his knees, eyes trained on Sapnap. “You’re right,” he affirms, convincing himself. “I’m sure I’m just overthinking this.” 

George follows his gaze, and is surprised to find Dream’s eyes on him. They flit away in an instant, and George wonders if he imagined it. 

_“I still think he likes you…”_

No. Surely not. 

“Let’s go Karl,” George says, grabbing his bag. Karl protests, and George heaves him off the ground. “C’mon lazy-bones.”

They amble towards the parking lot, Karl grumbling about stopping somewhere for food.

George pretends he doesn’t notice Dream watching him leave.

**********

“George?” Bad’s voice rings out.

George looks up in surprise to find Bad and Skeppy waiting, pencils suspended over their scratch paper. Quackity is twirling his in between his fingers distractedly.

“Sorry what was that? I must have spaced out,” George replies, focusing back on the math textbook in front of him.

“No worries,” Bad responds cheerfully. “We were just asking if you’re ready for us to check your answers.”

“Remind me why you numbskulls are qualified to teach us?” Quackity says disinterestedly. He attempts to hold the pencil up with his upper lip by scrunching his mouth and nose together. Skeppy snatches the pencil right as it starts to balance properly, setting it back down on the desk, ignoring Quackity’s angry _“Hey!”_

“Like we said, _Quackity_ ,” Skeppy continues, giving their friend a dirty look. “Professor Collins requires twenty hours of tutoring this semester in our Algebra III class. Both of you were available, and suck at math.”

Quackity grumbles something under his breath. 

“Ok, I do not _suck_ at math,” George protests. “I’ve just gotten behind this unit.”

“Yeah me too,” Quackity adds.

George pokes him. “No you definitely just suck at math.”

“Oh c’mon!” Quackity yells.

George snickers, and passes Bad his homework assignment to look over. Bad scans the page carefully. “How’s the team looking, George?” He asks, still focused on the paper in his hand.

George rests his chin in his hand. “Good, I think. Everyone this year has been really committed. It’s refreshing. Really, it’s just a matter of keeping up with their enthusiasm.”

Skeppy reads the answers over Bad’s shoulder as he grades them. “You think you’ll have a chance at taking state this year?” 

George shrugs. “Maybe. Puffy and Will think we have it in the bag, but I’m trying not to get my hopes up. We’re still a relatively new program, so who knows.”

“How long until competition?”

“Let’s see...” he counts off the months on his fingers. It’s October now, and competition is in January. “Around four.” He blows out a puff of air. “Damn, that’s coming up fast.”

“I’m sure you guys will be fine,” Quackity says, ripping one corner of his assignment into smaller and smaller bits of paper, letting them collect in a pile on the table. “I can’t wait to watch you kick Cedar Peak’s ass.”

“Language,” Bad mumbles, circling a problem. “And quit making a mess, Quackity.”

Quackity takes the pieces of paper in between his fingers and leans over to sprinkle them on Bad’s head. Bad and Skeppy exclaim simultaneously, trying to knock his arm away. Quackity cackles and darts away. 

Bad hands George’s paper back with three questions marked in red, then moves on to Quackity’s. George puts the assignment away, grabbing his backpack. 

“Wait, where are you going?” Skeppy asks as George crams random folders and calculators into the bag. 

“Dinner with my parents, remember?”

Skeppy hums. “Oh right. Well, see you George. Shoot us a text if you get stuck fixing the homework later.”

George nods. “Will do, thanks again you guys. See ya Bad, Quackity.”

“Bye George, have fun at home,” Bad says with a wave, and Quackity groans.

“Nooo George, you can’t leave me to third-wheel these two! What if they start having sex under the table?”

Skeppy simultaneously punches Quackity in the arm as Bad screeches another “Language!”

“Sorry Q, I guess you’ll just have to finish the homework in the bathroom,” George teases, heading out the door. Quackity lets out an exaggerated wail as the door shuts behind him. 

It’s only a two hour drive to his parents’ house in Tampa, but it feels much longer. The drive leaves him plenty of time to think, and worry, and work himself up about the dinner. He isn’t sure why visiting the Vincents always makes him so nervous. The monthly dinners usually result in a very nice evening, and he likes catching up with his siblings. But there’s also the inevitability that they will ask about school, cheer, or his dating life. All topics he’d rather avoid at the dinner table. 

They’ve only been living in Florida for a few years, and it still feels odd to call it home. Though he enjoys the warm weather here, and the boisterous people, he still misses rainy Brighton most days. 

When George arrives, most of his siblings are already present, bustling around the kitchen and sprawling across the couch. His mother, Alice, barely notices George walk in.

“Oh George, dear, welcome!” She says, running by in a pair of oven mitts. She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek in passing. “Come help me with this roast, will you?”

“Sure, mum,” he replies, hanging up his coat. 

Taking a head count, George spots his oldest brother Miles in the living room, working on his laptop. Their other brother, Camron, has yet to show up. As George passes by the living room, a pair of tiny arms wrap around his leg, and he looks down to find a curly haired boy latched on, his oldest sister Jane in tow. 

“Uncle Gogy!” The child shrieks, jumping up and down. 

“Calm down Dennis, give him a second to breathe,” Jane says, catching her breath after having chased her son up the stairs. “Hi George,” she adds as an afterthought, with a tired smile. 

George smiles back and lifts Dennis onto his hip. “Hey buddy. Want to give your mum a break and come help me with dinner?”

The four year old claps and bobs his head rapidly, squirming in George’s arms. “Yes, yes!”

Jane, mouths a thank you and goes back to the basement, likely to corral her other two children. 

The kitchen is warm, full of the smells of slow cooked meat and vegetables. George inhales deeply and sighs. The dining table is already set with matching plates and silverware, a napkin folded neatly at each seat.

“Oh good,” Alice says, pushing him over to one of the bowls on the counter. “Finally someone who knows what they’re doing. You take care of the potatoes.” 

“What about me Nana?” Dennis asks.

George’s mother looks around, exasperated. “Just um… go grab me some more napkins, how about that.”

Dennis putters off to complete the task as George starts peeling the potatoes.

“Where’s dad and Camron?” He asks.

Alice stirs the gravy on the stove. “Camron is picking up his girlfriend, and your father is probably still asleep in his room.”

“Camron has a girlfriend?” George raises an eyebrow.

His mother sighs in exasperation.“Apparently. I wasn’t aware until this morning,” she chuckles. 

“Why am I not surprised.” George smirks.

Alice sighs, pushing away a few stray strands of hair with her forearm. “Oh well,” she says. “Maybe a girlfriend will force Camron to buckle down and get serious about something.”

“Maybe,” George replies, then with a chuckle adds, “But I doubt it.” 

Alice laughs.

Camron shows up thirty minutes later, a pretty blonde thing adorned in a black cocktail dress on his arm. George fights the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Hello family!”

Forty minutes later they are sitting around the too-small dinner table, talking over the whines and screeches and gurgles of Jane’s children. 

“Well then,” Alice huffs, bringing the last dish to the table and stepping back to admire her work. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

Camron’s girlfriend introduces herself as “Betty.” _Betty_ doesn’t stop talking the entire meal. 

Peachy.

She insists upon commenting on every conversation that she picks up on, speaking over everyone in a shrill voice. Each time she does, Camron nods along to each statement with wide, admiring eyes. George avoids the problem preemptively by not saying a word, making sure his mouth is full every time someone even looks his way. He makes a mental note to beg his brother to leave her home next time.

George’s mother interrupts Betty mid-sentence as she babbles about her skin-care routine to anyone who will listen. 

“So, Miles honey!” Alice calls. “Why don’t you tell everyone about that new promotion you got at work!”

Miles shifts in his seat and tries to look engaged. “Oh, uh sure. I… got a promotion.”

Alice tilts her head forward expectantly. “And?”

“The regional manager is retiring, so I’m taking over his job. It’ll be better pay, so that’s nice.”

The Vincent family waits for further elaboration that doesn’t come. George’s mother purses her lips. “Right then. That’s… great dear.”

George feels bad for her. Alice Vincent is undoubtedly the very thing that holds their family together, working tirelessly to keep them fed, clothed, and happy. It’s left her somewhat frazzled, constantly tired, and quite often disappointed. When you have such high hopes for the people you love, George supposes it makes sense that you’re always getting let down. 

“George,” his father’s strong voice rings out above the rest, making all of the family members’ heads turn. 

George swallows a spoonful of peas, feeling his palms grow sweaty. “Yes?” He tries not to sound nervous.

Joseph Vincent is a good man, but a terribly imposing one. George wouldn’t go as far as to say he feared him, but ever since he was a boy he and his siblings had a clear understanding that when father speaks, you listen. 

Joseph continues cutting his roast. Even Betty settles down momentarily. George waits.

“How’s school?” His father starts, taking a bite of meat. 

George shifts in his seat. “It’s going well. I’ve gotten good marks this semester, and I’ve made some good friends.” He responds, the words automatic and familiar. 

“Studying hard?”

George nods. “Yes. I just came from a tutoring session actually.”

Joseph chews slowly, humming in approval. For a long moment, George thinks he might be off the hook. 

“Are you still doing that cheerleading thing?” He asks, dark eyes flitting up to meet George’s.

_There it is._

Across from him, Miles plays with his food distractedly, and Jane grabs a napkin to wipe Dennis’ mouth. All is silent.

“I am.”

His mother gives him a vaguely pitying look. George hates that look more than anything.

His father has never approved of his decision to pursue cheer. They have had countless arguments over the dinner table… on car rides... in George’s bedroom late at night. 

_“I don’t know how you expect me to support you dancing around in a skirt and pom poms for the rest of your life when you are going to need to support yourself on your own soon!”_

_“George, when are you going to stop wasting your time with that and pick a real career?”_

_“I don’t want to discourage what you love, but I worry how far that passion alone will be able to take you.”_

_“It’s only because I care about you, son. I worry. I can’t help but feel that you are holding yourself back from greater things.”_

An image of Puffy, staring at him with those bright eyes of hers conjures up in his mind. 

_“What’s holding you back?”_

He knows. 

George steels himself. “I am,” he repeats. “Actually, I’m glad you brought that up. There’s something I wanted to ask you all.”

Jane pauses curiously, and Camron stops eating, mid bite. His father says nothing.

George forges ahead. “I um… well, we’re going to be performing a routine I came up with at the football game next Friday.” 

He attempts to calm his shaky breaths, continuing.

“It’s kind of a big deal. I’ve been putting it together for like a month.” George plays with his fingers under the table, nervous energy coursing through him. “And I was wondering if you all would maybe want to be there?”

The words come out less confident than he had intended, but George feels a freeing sense of pride settle inside him nonetheless. He’s through with walking on eggshells around them. If his family is upset, so be it. 

“I’ve got to take Dennis in for that MRI on Friday,” Jane says, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry George. If I could be there I would. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

She sounds genuinely regretful, but it still stings just a little. He isn’t sure what he expected. Of course there would be some conflicts with such late notice. 

“I don’t know George, I’m not sure if I can get work off,” Miles says reluctantly. 

“Will you try?” George pushes. 

Miles pauses. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll try.”

“I know I’d love to go!” Betty exclaims, grabbing Camron’s arm excitedly. “I used to do cheer in high school, and I adored it!” Camron seems surprised at the outburst but smiles, patting her hand. “Count us in, I guess,” he says with a shrug, and George mentally apologizes to Betty for every negative thought he had conceived about her earlier. He feels exhilarated. All that’s left is...

“Mum? Dad?” He asks, biting his lip.

Alice turns to her husband, waiting for his response.

Joseph considers George, rubbing his jaw. They sit with baited breath.

“We’ll be there, son.” his father says finally, and George’s heart soars. 

“Okay. Okay great! I really appreciate it- all of you. Thank you,” he stammers breathlessly, unable to hide the growing smile on his face.

Finally, _finally_ … they will be able to see. See all the sweat and tears he has put into this team. See why he is willing to risk the approval of his entire family for a couple hours on that field each week. 

George begins to eagerly scoop up another serving of mashed potatoes. He looks up at the girl across the table, his voice bright and earnest.“So Betty, you said you did cheer? I’d love to hear what that was like!”

**********

The football game arrives seemingly overnight. One second George had been calling Karl on the drive home from his parents Sunday, the next he’s leading warm up stretches behind the stands as fans slowly filter in. 

“Alright, we’ll call it there guys. Make sure you stay warm and stay hydrated,” George calls as the cheer team begins to cross back out to the field. People offer the occasional “Will do!” and “Thanks George,” in passing as they collect their gear. Karl comes to a stop beside him, resting his chin on George’s shoulder. 

“Is your family here yet?” He asks, inclining his head towards the metal stands above them. 

George feels his stomach twist nervously. “I don’t think so. They said they were running a little late.” 

Karl nods, and rocks from foot to foot, watching the crowd with a faraway expression. He puffs out his cheeks, then lets the air out. “Have you uh... seen Sapnap around?” He asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

George gives him a side-eye. “Why do you ask?” He bumps his shoulder into Karl’s, smirking. 

Karl rolls his eyes. “I just thought I’d wish him good luck before the game. Nothing fancy.”

“Right, right. Of course,” George replies with feigned seriousness. 

“George leave me aloneeee…” Karl whines and George laughs, poking his sides. 

“Okay, okay,” he concedes, backing off with his hands in the air. “I think I saw him over by the locker room. That’s probably your best bet.” 

Karl slings his bag over one shoulder. “ _Thank you_ ,” he says in amused exasperation, saluting. “I’ll come catch up with you later. Wish me luck!”

George salutes back. “Good luck! Go win his heart!”

Karl blushes and groans, waving George off as he heads towards the other side of the field. George laughs quietly to himself and trails after him, aiming to find Puffy and run through the schedule with her one last time. He weaves through the crowd, ducking through throngs of students and parents finding their seats. Eventually, George steps onto the bleachers, hoping the higher vantage point will help him find his coach. The metal bar is cold beneath his hands, and he leans against it, squinting at the empty field and track. The sun is just starting to set, casting long shadows across the field. Not seeing Puffy, George turns on heel to go back down the stairs and… promptly runs headfirst into a stranger. The man lets out a surprised _“Mmph!”_ stumbling backward.

“I’m so sorry!” George exclaims, but the words die in his throat as he looks up to see a pair of familiar green eyes. 

“Why hello there,” Dream says, once he’s caught his breath, amusement dancing in his face. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

George is at a loss for words, frozen in place as people push past them. “Hi,” he finally manages, cringing at how awkward he sounds. 

Dream’s smile brightens. “Hi,” He repeats. “Can you help me with something?”

George nods before he can think twice, brain running a mile a minute.

“Cool. Uh- do you think you could help me find Karl? Sap is looking for him,” Dream explains, scanning the area. 

George laughs, raising his eyebrows. “Sapnap is… oh boy. Karl just left to look for him, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

They share a knowing look. George presses his palm to his forehead. “Those dorks.”

Dream shakes his head, chuckling. “Why am I not surprised.”

“I know where Karl was heading if you want to-”

“Oh, yeah! Sure,” Dream nods appreciatively, starting down the bleacher steps. “Thanks.” 

They walk side by side in comfortable silence, heading towards the locker rooms. After a while, George can sense Dream’s eyes on him. When George looks over, he casts his gaze downward, twisting his mouth. He looks to be thinking. 

George waits until he finally speaks up. 

“Hey, uh- I’m really sorry about the popcorn thing by the way,” he says, not meeting George’s eyes. 

George flushes slightly at the memory. _He’s apologizing?_ If anyone should be apologizing, it’s him. A sense of renewed embarrassment washes over him.

“It’s no big deal,” George says, playing with his jacket sleeve. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way.”

“I thought it was pretty funny,” Dream’s lips quirk upward in a small smile. 

He puts his face in his hands and groans. “It was stupid. I shouldn’t have done it.”

Dream nudges him and George feels his heart flutter. 

“Now I know not to flirt with you unless I want the nearest concession in my hair.”

George tries to school his expression, but his brain screams. _Flirt, flirt, flirt_ . He said _flirting._ That was _flirting_. 

George swallows.

“Yup, you had better watch out,” he says weakly, heart pounding. This is pathetic. Completely and utterly pathetic. George wishes desperately for a hole to crawl into. Thankfully, Dream interrupts his panicked train of thought by clearing his throat and pointing up ahead.

“Oh, there they are!” He says. George looks up, and sure enough finds Karl and Sapnap already mid conversation by the water fountain. They are laughing heartily.

“I wonder if Sap has asked him out yet,” Dream remarks, catching George off guard. 

“What?”

Dream shrugs casually. “That was the plan when I checked in with him earlier. We’ll see how it goes.”

“You mean he-? I can’t believe…” George marvels, unable to keep himself from grinning. “Karl is going to lose his shit.”

But as they watch from afar, Karl waves goodbye to Sapnap and jogs over to them, unfazed. 

“Hey guys,” he says, and they eye him expectantly.

No reaction.

“...How was that Karl?” George asks hesitantly, trying to read his expression. 

Karl smiles, no more or less brightly than usual. 

“Good! We should probably get going though George, Puffy is gonna want to talk to us before the game.”

George and Dream share a confused look, but Karl is already walking back down the track. “You coming Gogy?” He asks, tilting his head.

“Y-yeah,” George stutters. “Okay.”

Dream points towards Sapnap- an unspoken question. George nods his own head towards Karl. Dream gives him a thumbs up, and they go their separate ways. 

Once they have gotten a fair distance away, George leans forward to look at Karl’s face, rested in a state of calm cheerfulness. 

“So… Karl…” He starts cautiously. “Did you and Sapnap talk about anything… interesting?”

Karl shrugs. “Yeah! We talked about the game and cheer for a bit.”

“Anything else…?”

“Oh! He asked me if I wanted to go see a movie next week too!”

George sighs in relief. “So he did ask you out!”

Karl’s head snaps to look at him. 

“What?”

Uh oh. George pauses. “He… asked you out?”

Karl stops dead in his tracks. “No he didn’t.”

“Karl.”

“Wait-”

George runs a hand down his face in disbelief. “Oh my gosh, Karl you absolute idiot.”

Karl’s cheeks turn pink. “Wait. Wait. Wait.”

“Mhm?”

He claps a hand over his mouth. “He was-?”

“Yup.”

“And I-”

“Uh huh.” George folds his arms. “Please tell me you at least said yes.”

Karl runs a hand through his hair, mouth hanging open. “Of course I said yes! But I didn’t think- I didn’t know-” he sinks to the ground with a wail, muffled behind his hands. George snorts as he lays on the track, arms and legs splayed out like a starfish. A few passing college students give him a weird look as they walk past.

“I am never going to recover from this,” Karl says, completely deadpan. “I am going to stay on this track until I die.”

George kicks his foot. “Now don’t do that.” He shuffles around and leans over, blocking Karl’s view. “After all, you have a date next week.”

Karl moans pitifully and throws both arms over his flushed face. 

**********

It is two minutes to seven when the Vincent family arrives. They’re standing clumped at the entrance when George sees them, each getting stamped on the hand as they walk through. His heart skips a beat.

He catches Puffy’s eye and points toward the group. She gives George a thumbs up, and he mouths a thank you, running to meet them beyond the front gate. 

As he approaches, Betty waves excitedly and George smiles, waving back. “You made it!” He says, catching his breath, hands resting on his knees. 

Camron laughs, looking around. “We sure did. It’s fun to be at a football game again. I haven’t attended one live in a while.”

“Even you Miles! I really appreciate it,” George continues, sidestepping to look at his oldest brother, hovering behind the rest of the group. Miles’ expression softens and he lifts one shoulder. “I figured you went to enough of my games. It’s about time I come to yours.”

“You look wonderful by the way,” Betty says, and George blushes, looking down at the green and white uniform. He pretends not to notice the way his father’s gaze lingers on the skirt. 

“Thank you Betty.”

His mother wraps him in an eager embrace. “We’re so excited honey. You’re going to do great,” she says, and George sighs, the scent of her familiar shampoo washing over him and settling his nerves. 

This is going to be great. This is going to be wonderful.

A warning whistle blows on the field, and George presses a kiss to Alice’s head, pulling away. “I’ve got to go now,” he says, backpedaling away slowly. “I’ll see you all after the game!” 

“Good luck,” Joseph says, his voice carrying above the chatter around them. His face is firm, but George can see the honesty in his eyes. It warms him to his core. 

**********

By the time half-time rolls around, the contentment and ease that had filled his mind and body earlier is gone, replaced with ice cold fear. It seeps into George’s bones and makes his knees knock together. He wills himself to stay calm, trying to focus on the football game instead of the massive timer ticking down to zero. 

He’s not sure why he’s so nervous. Puffy was right when she said they’ve had the routine perfected for weeks. George can easily run through it in his mind, envisioning each aspect as it plays out. The stunts are difficult, but nothing they can’t handle, and the roar of the crowd is something he should be accustomed to. But it’s overwhelming. The sounds and the smells and the humid air overtake him, and George feels sick. 

Thankfully, Niki approaches his place tucked under the bleachers with a sympathetic look. She sits beside him quietly, pulling her knees up to her chest. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

George repeatedly opens and closes his fist, squeezing it and letting his nails dig into his palm. Niki doesn’t say anything for a long time, tracing little circles on her leg.

“George?” She finally says, and the sound yanks him out of his trance. 

Niki’s expression is open, and comforting. She takes his hand, the next words coming out soft and sincere. 

“We believe in you.”

George stares at her, wide eyed. The timer buzzes, but he doesn’t jump. Niki squeezes his hand once, and stands up, offering a small smile and a nod before going back to the track. 

George takes a deep shuddering breath. 

He can do this. Niki believes, and they _all_ believe _,_ and _he can do this_.

George strides out to meet his team, movements strong and certain. The announcer crackles over the loudspeakers as they get in position. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Northview University cheer team!”

George leads them forward, gaze set firmly ahead, adrenaline pumping. They walk across the track, past the sidelines, and onto the center of the football field, floodlights bright on their skin. 

Puffy and Wilbur watch side by side, Puffy biting her lip with anxious excitement. She doesn’t even need to say a word for George to know her message. _I believe in all of you._

_He can do this._

_He deserves to be here._

He looks out at the cheering fans, at Puffy and Wilbur. Then, in the buzzing, crackling, breathtaking moments before the music begins, George looks at Dream across the field, the blonde’s eyes intense and focused. George drinks his gaze in, fire in his stomach, and doesn’t look away.

The music starts. And the routine begins.

**********

For a few precious minutes, everything is perfect. They hold their final pose, and George gulps in delicious breaths of air. For a moment, he thinks he could fly. Simply lift his feet out from under him and float up up and away, until the applause and whistles of the crowd fade away into nothing.

Then... he is struck back to earth. 

The figure near the entryway table would have been unnoticeable had you not spent years upon years of your life seeing him every day. If you hadn’t toddled after him on wobbly legs as he cleaned the living room. If you hadn’t had countless conversations with him before drifting off to sleep. 

George can’t tear his eyes away.

Joseph Vincent has his back halfway turned, stony face pressed up against the cell phone in his hand. He nods occasionally, before pacing a bit- interjecting a comment here and there. 

George doesn’t even realize that they’re finished… that they’re moving until Karl rests a hand against the small of his back and guides him forward with the rest of the team. He follows George’s gaze and shakes his head, mouth pressed into a firm line. 

George feels numb. But not the same kind of numb as when you land a perfect flip, the world still spinning around you, vertigo making your stomach jump. Not the same kind of numb as when a gorgeous honey haired boy brushes his arm against yours as you walk side by side. This numbness is hollow, and cold. It spreads across his limbs, making it hard to even lift his feet off the ground. 

Joseph has the decency to look up when it’s over, searching for his son. 

George lets himself be guided across the turf like a ghost, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. 

He feels empty.

**********

The rest of the game goes by in a blur. People pass by and congratulate him, but George barely manages to respond. The words trail in one ear and out the other, drifting away on the wind. He doesn’t look in the stands. He doesn’t look at Dream. He doesn’t even look at Karl, who sticks by his side like glue for the last hour and half of the game. Karl doesn’t ask him about it. They’ve been friends long enough, and he _knows_. Still, he can sense the anger rolling off his friend in waves, making the space between them stiff and charged, like the utterance of one word might just set it aflame. 

George doesn’t even register who wins or loses by the time the final whistle blows. All he knows is there are people everywhere, and it’s loud, and he wants nothing more than to run the rest of the way home to his apartment. But he can’t. Not yet.

Karl offers to go with him, but George declines forcefully.

“Maybe I could just be there for moral support,” he says. “I can keep myself from beating his ass at least until you’re finished talking.” 

“Karl.”

“George.”

George sighs. “You are going to do nothing of the sort. You are going to go find Sapnap or Quackity or Bad and you are going to go enjoy the rest of your night.”

Karl protests, but George silences him with a firm hand on the shoulder. “Karl. Please. I’ll be okay. I don’t want you to spend the rest of your Friday night hung up on my dad being shitty.”

Karl is displeased, but finally gives in, only after George promises to give him an update once he gets home. 

_“I’ll be okay.”_

He is not okay.

As George fumbles his way through the crowd towards his mother’s bright blue jacket, he begins to wonder if this is all just an overreaction. After all, it was only one performance. A minute long phone call, if that. But George _hurts_ , and he can’t help but let that hurt fester and boil inside him. It’s not a big deal. He should let it go. But George is _so tired_ of letting things go. Of stepping aside. Of ducking his head, and pretending like he hasn’t poured his whole life into this. And when he meets his father’s eyes, something sparks, burning him from the inside out.

He stops five feet away from where they are sitting, just out of reach. Joseph averts his eyes, and George wants to scream, “ _Look at me_ . _Look at me, you stupid bastard. Look at your son. See me.”_

All that comes out is, “Why?”

Joseph scratches at his stubble, shifting in his seat. “I’m so sorry George, there was- well Jane called, you see- from Dennis’ appointment… there were some complications and- well you can understand now, can’t you George?”

“I don’t understand,” he replies, arms hung limp at his side. 

Joseph waits to see if he’ll continue. George does. 

“I know that Jane, and Dennis, and work, and a million other things are important. I get it. They absolutely deserve your time, and love, and consideration. But why is it never me that’s important?” George’s voice breaks, and he tries and fails to maintain control. 

His mother tuts something meant to be consoling, but George stops her with a hard look.

“No. Don’t tell me I’m wrong, because you know it’s true,” he snaps, and Alice retreats, looking as if she’s been slapped. George continues. “All I asked is for you to watch one performance. _One_.”

For a moment, guilt flashes across his father’s face, but he pushes it down, standing to meet George. “What was I supposed to do? Just leave Jane to figure things out? She needed me!” His voice raises defensively, nearing a shout. Passersby shoot them an uncomfortable glance and look away. 

George ignores them, seeing nothing but his father towering over him, eyes churning with emotion. George feels like he’s choking, each breath stabbing painfully through chest. His lip trembles. He can’t cry. He won’t cry. 

The words spill out before he can stop them, tearing out of his mouth in a holler.

“That’s all you’ve done for me!” 

Joseph seems taken aback.

George takes another step forward.

“The only thing you’ve done my _entire life_ is leave me to figure it out. College... relationships... cooking, shaving, dressing… all of it! All because I was different than the rest of us kids. Well guess what, Dad? I have.” He heaves in a shuddering breath. “I just- for once I wanted you to see all of the shit I’ve figured out for myself.”

The Vincent family is quiet, stunned into a weighty silence. 

Unable to look at his mother’s hollow eyes any longer, George leaves, his footsteps echoing as they hit the metal bleachers. 

The tears well up as soon as his family is out of view, and he desperately blinks them away, his only thought _leave leave leave, hide hide hide._

Puffy sees him run past, concern etched into her features, but George ducks into the men’s restroom before she can get close enough to ask if he’s alright. Once he is sure the bathroom is entirely empty, he shuts himself in one of the stalls, collapses onto the toilet, and sobs. 

The sobs come in waves, seizing his whole chest and making it hard to see at times. He cries like that for what feels like hours, bent over on his knees, and holding himself. 

Until a voice at the stall door gives him pause.

“George?”

George attempts to even out his breathing, still quaking with the effort.

“Dream?” He rasps, pressing himself against the back of the toilet, away from the shadow at the door. He hadn’t even noticed him come in. George can see his worn black tennis shoes hovering on the other side.

Dream seems to be debating a course of action. Really, George isn’t sure if wants him to leave without another word, or force the door open and gather George into his arms.

After a while, Dream speaks up in a small, worried voice. “Are you okay?”

George nearly breaks down into another fit of weeping right then and there, the tenderness in the other man’s voice making his heart hurt. Instead he laughs, a broken, choked sound. 

“Not really.”

Dream hums, low and thoughtful, shifting his feet. “Okay.”

George waits for him to continue. For a while, he doesn’t. Then in a concerned tone, “Do you want to talk about it?”

George does want to talk about it. He wants to scream, and beat his fists against the door and say _“Look what he did, look what he did to me.”_ But he knows that will get him nowhere.

“Not really.”

Dream’s shoes turn so they face the opposite way of the stall. He hears a gentle thud as Dream rests his back against the door. 

“That’s alright.”

George sighs, pushing all the air out of his lungs in one long stream. 

“Keep talking… please,” he says, rubbing a thumb in lazy circles on his shoulder. 

“About what?” Dream responds calmly, and George shrugs, though he knows Dream can’t see it.

“Anything.”

So Dream does. 

He rests his duffel bag on the ground beside him, and sits against it on the tile floor. His voice echoes a little, warm and smooth in the space. 

George closes his eyes and listens.

Dream tells him about his family- about his little sister and how much he misses her. How they used to play pranks on their Mom whenever she would settle down for a nap. He tells George about his cat, who is apparently, “the most beautiful, lovable, loyal creature in the world,” and might as well be his best friend. He tells stories about running away from teachers who tried to drag him back inside after recess in grade school. About the little pond in his home town where all the neighborhood kids would get together and swim on the hottest summer days. He tells him that green is his favorite color, and that he doesn’t like tomatoes. 

George breathes it all in like Dream’s voice is the only oxygen left on earth. He lets it fill him, soothing the ache inside if only for a moment. When Dream finally trails off thirty minutes later, everything feels still. Peaceful. 

George steps forward, knocking on the door. Realizing that he is blocking the exit, Dream scrambles to his feet and takes a few steps away from the stall. 

When George opens the door, Dream is watching him closely, perched a few feet away like he’s about to take flight. Seeing the way he rocks forward on his feet, eyes wide and honest, George isn’t able to hide the barely noticeable, grateful smile that crosses his lips. He keeps one hand planted on the open stall door.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For staying.”

“Anytime,” Dream replies, almost breathlessly, and George feels lightheaded. 

After a moment, he gives a slight nod, and leads the way out of the bathroom, knowing Dream will follow.

**********

Sometimes George wishes he wasn’t so stubborn. 

Dream walks him back to the near empty football field, swinging his arms with each step. When they reach the track, he pauses, looking around, then back at George. 

He rubs his shoulder absentmindedly. “Do you uh, have a ride?” 

Shit. George glances up at the stands, simultaneously hoping and dreading to see his family sitting there. But the Vincents are nowhere to be seen. Neither is Karl.

“Yeah,” he lies, regretting the statement as soon as he says it.

“Are you sure?” Dream asks.

“Definitely.”

“Ok. Cool.”

George bites the inside of his cheek, mind already calculating the distance it takes to walk home. It’s really not bad, just a few miles. 

Dream hesitates, then glances over towards the parking lot. “Well, if you’re all set, I had better get going. I’ve got an early morning shift tomorrow.”

“Right! Of course. I won’t keep you,” George replies, trying to sound casual. “Good game,” he adds as an afterthought.

Dream’s lips quirk upward as he turns away. “Thanks. See you,” he says, then pauses. “I hope you feel better.” 

And then he’s gone.

George watches Dream leave until he’s nothing but a tiny speck weaving between the distant cars. He stands there for a little longer, still, just breathing in the night air.

Weirdly enough, he does feel better. 

Until he remembers that he’s a bit stranded. And it’s 12:30 am. Great.

“Would it have been that hard to ask for a lift home?” He mutters to himself, kicking a stray can of Mountain Dew. 

“Decided to go for a late night run?”

The voice makes George jump, and he whirls around, only to find Wilbur watching him with a raised eyebrow. Wilbur picks up the can and tosses it into a nearby garbage can. 

George grips his chest. “You scared me!”

Wilbur chuckles. “Sorry,” he says, not meaning it. He comes forward and slings George’s bag over his own shoulder. “You guys did wonderful today. Well done captain.”

George eyes the bag, but lets his coach take it. “I hardly did a thing. It was all them,” he says fondly. “But thank you.”

Wilbur doesn’t ask about his family. George can see the question in his eyes, but he keeps it on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he says, “Do you want a ride home?”

“That would be great,” George sighs gratefully, swallowing his embarrassment at having not planned ahead. He follows Wilbur out the front gate and to his tired old minivan. The seats are covered with blankets and papers and assorted gear for the team. 

“Sorry it’s messy,” Wilbur says, clearing off the passenger seat. George tells him it’s no problem and slides in. 

The car starts with shudder and George relaxes into the leather, the exhaustion of the day finally hitting him. He gives Wilbur his address, who plugs it into his phone. They leave the windows down, letting the humid Florida air seep in. The radio and the A.C. are broken (George knows from countless times carpooling with Wilbur and other team members up to competitions), but it still runs. Will has had the car since high school apparently, and while it’s on its last leg, he adores it. 

The streets are nearly empty at this point, the traffic lights casting a hazy glow over everything. George loves nights like this. He’s found his thoughts are louder in the silence, and sometimes a long drive is the perfect solution to sorting them out.

When Wilbur finally speaks, it’s in a low, easy tone, his voice melting into the air. 

“My parents were never too pleased with me when I decided to become a musician,” he says, as if he’s telling a bedtime story. 

George’s ears perk up.

“They always supported me in my love of singing and performing… until I grew up. And then it was _“What are you actually going to do with your life,”_ and _“A hobby isn’t going to pay your rent son,”_ and _“It’s time to let that go, and move onto real, concrete things.”_ Wilbur’s voice lifts as he mimics his parents, pitching deeper, and then higher at different points. His hands tighten on the wheel, and George watches his face, gaze set firmly ahead. 

George had known about Wilbur’s music career. After all, coaching was just something he did to bring in a little extra money- the gymnastics experience in his youth qualifying him enough to get the job. While Wilbur loved their team to death, songwriting was his passion. He was good at it too. George would convince him to play his songs occasionally- during long car rides or over the top of warm ups- and he would sit there quietly, tapping his foot to the beat, a hidden smile on his face. George loved seeing the way his eyes lit up in those quiet moments.

Wilbur breathes out, letting his tense shoulders drop. The stoplight changes color. 

“I was angry at them for a long time.”

The car hums as it crosses the intersection, dipping as they hit an uneven section of road.

“I was young, and hurt, and passionate… and I didn’t understand how anyone, _anyone_ could be so cruel as to hold me back from what I loved. Couldn’t care enough about me to care about my music. I thought they hated me. And I hated them.” 

George looks down, picking at a flaking piece of leather on the seat. The words settle in his head, assembling and disassembling over and over. 

Wilbur continues. “And you know, a part of that nineteen year old me was right,” he admits, eyeing George.

“Because you made a living out of it?” George responds, but Wilbur shakes his head. 

“Not exactly. Because, George, nobody has the right to tell you not to fight for something you love.”

The wind leaking through the windows feels hot on his face. “Oh.”

The clicking of the turn signal fills his ears, and George watches the familiar scenery fly past. Cafes, and supermarkets, and little dog parks he has driven past a million times before. They all look different at night, without people there to fill them. 

“But as the years went on I learned something,” Wilbur says, and George tears his gaze away, focusing on his friend.

“I learned that sometimes when you love someone, it makes you afraid. You want the best for them. You want to see them grow, and become stronger, and find happiness. But there’s always that fear. You’re afraid you’ve given them too much of yourself. You’re afraid to let them go. You’re afraid that one day, they’ll take that piece of you, and go so far… become so strong that they just don’t need you anymore.”

Blood pounds in George’s ears, and he tries to ignore the way his chest twists painfully. 

“It takes a lot of faith to let your child run away with something you don’t trust… you don’t understand. Because then and there, you’ve lost them for a little bit. It’s terrifying to let go of that control. To trust them with something they love.”

Wilbur rolls to a stop in front of George’s apartment and parks the car, letting his words hang in the air. “Now don’t get me wrong. Your father did a real shitty thing tonight. He should have been there, with you, in that moment. He should have been there for you at every moment.” Wilbur purses his lips, letting his hands fall away from the wheel. “I guess what I’m saying is that just because he messed up tonight... and doesn’t understand all this yet doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you George.”

George sits very still, eyes closed.

“Adults- actual fully grown adults- ...they can be real stupid. But in the end… they’re just as confused, and lost as we are.”

Wilbur pats him on the shoulder without looking up. He waits until George silently opens the car door, the rolling, twisting feeling in his gut having dissipated somewhat. 

George pauses, resting one hand on the handle. “Thank you for the ride Wilbur,” he says quietly. “And for everything else.”

Wilbur tucks his head in a nod. “Goodnight George.”

“Goodnight.”

The car door shuts with a click, and Wilbur drives off, leaving him standing on the curb under the streetlight.

That night, George lies awake in bed for a long time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George gives the bag a weak kick and groans. “I put my extra clothes in my locker, thinking I could grab them later. Unfortunately for me, I did not grab said clothes later.”
> 
> Dream’s eyebrows shoot upward and he mouths an “oh.” They sit in uncomfortable silence for a long moment, before Dream speaks up.
> 
> “You could borrow some of mine?” 
> 
> George almost chokes. “What??”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out, but I was having some writer's block and wanted to to get it just right. Thank you all so much for your support, it means the world. Special thanks to @skiggswastaken on Twitter and @gothtraits on Tumblr for beta-ing this chapter, and to my bestie Anika for always being there to pump me up in the google docs chat at 1 a.m. Hope you enjoy, and as always, feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> Social Media:  
> Twitter: _GraceWrites_  
> Tumblr: blockmenbrainr0t  
> Tiktok: perrytheplatypusnoise

At 4:30 am on a Tuesday morning, George’s car breaks down halfway to campus. 

“You’ve got to be joking,” He groans, slamming his hands against the dash as the engine sputters and dies for the third time. Fortunately, he made it to the side of the road before the old Toyota rolled to a stop. Cheer is supposed to start in half an hour, and Karl isn’t answering his phone. Cars speed past, either not noticing, or caring about his predicament. 

George shoots a quick text to Puffy letting her know he will be late, and then another to Karl. 

_“KARL WAKE UP AND LOOK AT YOUR PHONE._

The text stays on delivered. Great.

He gets out of the car, resting against the side. It only takes a minute or so to contact roadside assistance, who claims they will be there to tow the car within the hour. 

It has only been five minutes when a white car pulls up alongside George. He’s pretty sure he’s seen it before, but the tinted glass is too dark to see past. The car rolls to a stop and the driver window rolls down. 

George sighs in relief. “Oh thank goodness.”

“It seems you’re in a bit of a predicament, Cap,” Niki says, an amused smile on her face. George grins back, patting the top of his car. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Niki rolls her eyes. “Just get in.”

George laughs and opens the passenger door. “Thanks Niki, you’re a lifesaver.”

She starts the engine again. “Will your car be ok if you just leave it there?”

George shrugs, resting his head against the back of the seat. “It’s getting towed either way, at least in this scenario I won’t be stranded once it's gone. I’ll follow up with them later.” 

“Sounds good. As long as you’re sure,” Niki replies, shifting gears and pulling back into traffic. 

George glances down at his phone to find a text from Karl waiting for him.

_“Huh?”_

George clicks away from the message with a snort. How nice to know he has such supportive, punctual friends. 

**********

“Are you sure you can’t just tweak your schedule a little bit?”

On the other line, Bad sighs. “I’m really sorry George. If I had the time I would adjust for you, but between my job, and Skeppy needing to drive his siblings everywhere, that was really the only time we could do tutoring. If you wanted, I could always set you up with someone else from our class?”

George pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, that’s alright. Thanks anyway. I’m sure I’ll figure something out,” he says kicking his legs underneath the kitchen table. “And thanks so much for all your help thus far.” 

A faraway voice is heard from the other end of the phone and Bad pauses to listen. “Oh! Good idea, I’ll tell him,” he calls back, before returning to his and George’s conversation. “Skeppy said to ask if you knew about the math lab on campus?”

George takes a bite of toast absentmindedly. “I’ve heard we have one here, but I’ve never been.”

“Yeah! It’s just on the second floor of the Engineering Building. They’re open pretty much all day and the tutoring is free for students. You might be able to make that work with your crazy schedule,” Bad continues.

The math lab huh? He’s never been before, but giving it a try couldn’t hurt. 

“Thanks Bad,” George replies. “Maybe that’s just what I need. I’ll definitely stop by.” He finishes off his afternoon snack and lazily brushes the crumbs off his lap. 

“Anytime!” Bad responds. “Oh- and good luck with cheer! I know you guys want to be in top gear for competitions, but don’t work yourself too hard,” he says, and George scoffs.

“Tell that to Puffy.”

“Puffy’s not the one pulling all nighters to cram for midterms,” Bad fires back, and George knows he has a point. 

“Ok fine. I’ll try and catch a few more hours of sleep here and there.”

“Eight hours.”

“Don’t push it.”

Bad laughs. “Okay, okay. I’ll take what I can get. But I’m serious. Take care of yourself, George. And don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it. Keep me on speed dial.”

George smiles. “Will do. You’re the best, Bad.”

“I know. Don’t you forget it. See ya George.”

“See ya.”

George presses the end call button, and rests his forehead on the table. His eyelids are heavy, and a part of him wonders how bad it would be to fall asleep here for a little while- just close his eyes for a quick catnap. The thought is tempting. He is completely, and utterly exhausted.

Cheer practices have picked up in length and intensity lately as the team begins their preparations for competitions coming up at the beginning of the new year. Between extra long practices, and a packed class schedule, George is running on fumes, barely managing to drag himself out of bed in the morning. His grades are suffering nearly as much as his sleep, and he knows he needs to pull it together if he wants to get through the semester. Unfortunately, the saving grace of Bad and Skeppy’s tutoring sessions have been overtaken by the new cheer schedule, which runs an extra hour late into the evening on top of their morning practices. It’s looking like Quackity will be on his own with the lovebirds for a while.

George sets a reminder to check out the math lab after practice today, crossing his fingers it will still be open. As he goes to browse the school’s website for any information the refrigerator door at George’s back opens suddenly, and he jumps, whirling around to find Callahan pulling out a carton of milk.

“You scared me,” he exclaims, gripping his chest, and Callahan rolls his eyes. His roommate pours himself a glass and signs, _“Poor thing.”_

George points to the milk and pretends to gag, signing back, _“You monster.”_

Callahan shrugs with a grin, taking a sip. 

George’s sign language experience is minimal, but the few years of ASL classes he took as a foreign language requirement in high school allow him to at least get across the basics. And whatever he doesn’t understand from Callahan’s unique way of speaking he is able to gather from the man’s expressive facial reactions and physicality. It’s not hard to read him. In fact, George sometimes forgets entirely that Callahan can’t hear him. It’s only when he reaches the end of whatever long winded rant he’s been on (about a difficult teacher... or some obnoxious guy at a party) that Callahan will smirk at him, tapping one finger against his ear, making George flush red in embarrassment and retell what he can of the story in ASL. He isn’t sure if Callahan waits till the end out of politeness or amusement. 

_“Practice today?”_ His roommate signs, glancing at the clock above the stove.

 _“Waiting for Karl,”_ he replies. _“No car, remember?”_

Callahan’s mouth forms an “oh,” of recognition as he nods. _“Have fun. I’m going back to sleep.”_

 _“Lucky,”_ George adds, before Callahan disappears back into his room with a smug wave. 

Karl arrives a few minutes later, handing George an extra coffee as he climbs into the car. He inhales the bittersweet aroma and sighs out a thank you.

“Don’t mention it,” Karl replies knowingly, shifting gears.

“What do you think Puffy would do if I just curled up in the locker room and stayed there for practice today,” George mumbles, sipping at the drink and wincing as it burns his tongue. 

Karl laughs. “She’d probably drag you back out there... then text you at nine p.m. tonight telling you to take a melatonin and go to bed, or else.”

George snorts, looking out the side window. “Yeah, you’re right,” he replies, tracing a finger down the glass. “Good old Puffy.”

They stop at a red light and Karl glances over. “Did you ever figure out what you’re gonna do about tutoring?”

George shrugs. “Bad suggested the math lab. I’m going to head there after practice today and give it a try.”

“That could work. Do you want me to wait up for you?”

The light turns green. George closes his eyes, tilting his head against the cool surface. “No, don’t worry about it. I’ll just walk home. It’s not far.”

“You sure?” Karl questions, and George nods.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright, well tell me how it goes.”

“I will. Thanks.”

As they pull up to the school, Karl lightly punches George’s arm. “Want me to distract the team for five minutes while you nap?” He teases. 

Karl’s joking, but George knows he probably would if he asked. That’s just the kind of friend he is. George leans over the middle console so his head lays on Karl’s shoulder instead. He sighs dramatically, letting his whole body go limp while Karl tries to push him off. 

“I wish I could take you up on that kind offer my dear friend, but alas. Apparently I’m cheer captain or something and I guess I have to be responsible or whatever.” 

“Tragic, really,” Karl replies in an equally dramatic voice.

“I know, I know.”

Karl snickers patting both of George’s cheeks. “Let’s go, Sleeping Beauty,” he says and George groans. “The future championship team is waiting for us.”

**********

George gets lost three times trying to find the math lab.

It’s shocking really, that he’s never been there once in his three years at Northview. But despite having visited campus hundreds of times, the tucked away room on the second floor proves to be quite illusive. George really only finds it by happenstance, overhearing two other students talk about it in the hallway and following them awkwardly from a ways off. 

The math lab is surprisingly full- plenty of students and tutors mill about, sitting at tables throughout the room. Low chatter fills the space, and George immediately feels self conscious, despite the fact that no one has paid any mind to his entrance. The thought crosses his mind that if he wants help he’s going to have to _talk_ to someone, and sit wedged at one of those long tables scattered with extra pencils and notebook paper. Terrifying. Why having a quick conversation with one stranger over homework intimidates him more than performing in front of hundreds of random people, George will never know. He debates leaving right then and there, but takes a few steps inside the threshold instead, knowing he’ll get an earful from Bad if he doesn’t at least give it a try. 

He approaches one of the nearby tutors hesitantly, shuffling his feet. 

The girl looks up and offers a smile. “Hi! Can I help you?” 

George clears his throat. “Um, yes! I haven’t been here before, but I’m uh, here for help with math stuff? I think?”

The girl raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Well, I would assume so… people don’t wander into here to meet a hooker.”

George mentally kicks himself and chuckles nervously. “Right. Makes sense.” 

“Go ahead and talk to Brooke over there, she’ll work with you today.”

George murmurs a thank you, shouldering his backpack, swallowing his pride and heading to the corner of the room.

**********

George only makes it a few feet off of campus when Dream’s car comes to a stop beside him, the passenger window down.

George tries not to look exasperated. “What are you doing?” He asks incredulously.

Dream shrugs, eyebrows raised. “I was going to offer you a ride home.”

A ride home huh? 

The tutoring session had gone well for the most part. As soon as George was able to get over his initial apprehension and explain his questions to the tutor, the two of them were able to get through the assignment and out the door quickly, while there was still light out. 

And that’s just it, there’s still light out, and George really doesn’t need a ride. Contrary to Brighton, Octobers in Florida are still relatively warm, and the walk home isn’t long- a mile and a half at most. The walkways are paved, and George knows the way by heart. Dream has to know this. So why does he insist on being a bother?

“I’ll pass, thank you,” George replies curtly, continuing forward past the beat up truck and the curious football player. 

Dream inches the car forward with him, undeterred. “Are you sure? It’s really no bother.”

How annoying. 

“I’m sure.”

Dream doesn’t roll up the window. George huffs. 

“Why are you even here anyways? It’s way past school hours,” he shoots back incredulously, then for good measure adds, “What, are you stalking me?”

Dream laughs loud, bending his whole body over the steering wheel as he does so. “You’re giving yourself a little too much credit there George,” he says, a smug, crooked smile stretching across his face. “We just got out of practice.”

Ah.

Dream leans towards him, continuing. “Our little meeting here is simply happenstance, though you may wish otherwise.” 

George flushes hotly, covering his flusteredness with a scoff. “That’s the last thing I’d wish for,” he retorts, and Dream smiles wider, his eyes crinkling. 

“Whatever you say, Captain.”

Before George can tell him that _Dream_ does not get to call him Captain, only his _team_ gets to call him Captain, the tires are spinning, and the headlights have been flicked on.

Just as quickly as he arrived, Dream is gone... the distant whir of the engine trailing behind the shuddering truck the only reminder of his presence. 

George stands there on the curb for a long moment, mouth agape. “Cheeky asshole,” he finally mutters, kicking a nearby pebble and watching it skitter into the street. “The absolute audacity.”

He tugs the straps of his backpack tighter, and opts to forget it ever happened. Just another maddening interaction to add to the book, right under _“winked at me in the hallway,”_ and _“spammed my snapchat until I added him back,”_ and of course, _“called me pretty while half conscious in his underpants under the stars.”_ He knows there are other moments that he keeps filed away, whispered stories across bathroom stalls that bounce around his brain in the late hours of the night, but those ones are harder to deal with. More complicated to sort out. So instead he sits with his irritation at this whirlwind of a man and tells himself repeatedly how much he can’t stand him.

The only is, forgetting this one off incident becomes increasingly hard when Dream begins to offer George a ride _e_ _very day_.

It’s ridiculous how quickly George learns to recognize the sound of the sputtering truck engine without even looking up. He shows up every day a little after 6:30 for weeks without fail. Like clockwork, the brakes squeal. The window rolls down. And George rolls his eyes as Dream’s stupidly radiant face comes into view. 

_“Hi, George.”_

_“Good evening, George.”_

_“How was practice, George?”_

George never once slows his gait, and only rarely addresses the other man’s silly comments.

_“You know George, I was wondering, do you ever question why they made traffic lights red and green even though most color blind people can’t tell them apart?”_

_“I’m thinking of growing a mullet. Could I pull it off? Sap says it’s a horrible idea, but I think I could.”_

_“George, if you could be reincarnated as anything in the world, what would it be? And don’t just name some random animal. Really think about it. This would be for the entire rest of your life.”_

After the first few days of George denying him, Dream is forced to get creative.

_“You don’t understand George, I’m terrible with directions, and I really need to buy milk, but I have no clue where the supermarket is. Will you please help me get there, just this once? I’ll buy you an ice cream.”_

_“Did you hear there’s a massive hurricane headed our way? No? Well, apparently it already hit the newscasting stations, which is why you might not have gotten the warning yet. Crazy.”_

_“George would you hold on a second?? This is an emergency! Sapnap got stuck in the door because his ass is too fat! I need help getting him out!”_

_“We don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. I’ll just sit here in silence, and you’ll open your car door to leave and we’ll both give each other a solemn nod and never speak of it again. I swear."_

George hums loudly over the top of him, each time too prideful to stop and listen, yet too tired to make a run for it. 

That is, until the rainstorm from hell. 

It’s not a hurricane, like the ones Dream brings up every other day, but it might as well be. The rain pours down in buckets, the wind blowing it sideways so it pelts against George’s thin hoodie. Within a minute out in the elements, he is drenched to the bone, stumbling through the storm with one hand braced in front of his face. He had ditched tutoring last second, worried about getting home in the dark and rain. The thought crosses his mind to call Karl for relief, but he remembers his friend is already headed home to visit family for the weekend. Great.

So George trudges through it, ignoring the way water is pooling in his sneakers, making them squelch with each step. And then… _and then_ to make matters unimaginably worse, a pair of familiar headlights cuts through the sheets of rain splattering against dark asphalt. 

Dream.

George groans audibly and ducks his head, wiping dripping hair out of his eyes only for it to fall back to its original place. 

Dream rolls down the window, and George whips his head around. “Go away!” He shouts over the wind. “You are the last thing I need right now!”

Dream pauses, holding a cupped hand outside, letting water collect in, then drip down the sides of his palm. “You sure?”

George throws his arms upward. “Yes.”

Dream seems to consider his response, and for a moment George thinks he’s won, and waits for him to drive off like usual. But Dream doesn’t drive off. In fact, instead of starting up again, the engine dies.

And Dream steps out of the car.

Perfect.

He crosses in front of the headlights, eyes locked firmly on George’s, which are wide with confusion and disbelief. He stops a few feet away, looking around.

“Well?” Dream finally says, eyeing the sidewalk ahead of them as if the howling wind and sloshy gutters are the most natural thing in the world. Rivulets of rain trickle down the strands of dirty blond hair and onto his already soaked letterman’s jacket. He makes no move to push away the hair plastered to his forehead. George thinks he looks utterly ridiculous. And painfully attractive.

When George doesn’t move from his place firmly planted in the ground, Dream shrugs. “Fine by me.” 

To George’s astoundment, he strolls forward on his own, leaving George to eventually trail after him, tripping on his own feet. “Hold on a second-” he sputters. “What are you-? Now, not so fast Dream- wait!”

“You didn’t expect me to let you walk home alone in this, did you?” Dream calls over his shoulder, and though he sounds serious, George can hear the teasing in his tone. He sounds boyish like this, looks it too- weaving up the walkway with a skip in his step, completely soaked. 

George resists the sudden urge to giggle at the sight.

Fine. If this is all just a little game they play, George decides that just this once, Dream has won.

They are halfway up the block when George pauses, watching Dream with a hidden grin and narrowed eyes. He doesn’t say a word, refusing to admit defeat out loud, but turns silently, heading back to the car.

For a moment, he thinks Dream doesn’t notice as he backtracks the way they came at a leisurely pace. But suddenly, seconds later, the other man is rushing past him, bounding by on long legs, a gleeful expression on his face. George makes a noise of surprise as Dream pokes him in passing, then follows suit, racing him to the dull red truck. The grass squishes beneath his feet delightfully, and George has to be careful not to slip, the puddles splashing up with each pounding footfall. 

They throw open the doors simultaneously, diving into the front seat with flushed cheeks and sopping clothes. 

The doors shut behind them, and George tries desperately to chase his breath, head leaned backwards, eyes closed. His throat feels raw and his pulse races, leaving him feeling strangely giddy. A laugh catches deep in his chest, building and building until it bursts forth. Dream is close behind, his laughter coming in choked wheezes that carry through the air and make George laugh harder. It continues like that seemingly endlessly until they are both holding their sides and gasping for air. 

George looks over at Dream, with his broad shaking shoulders, and his dumb soggy varsity jacket, and salty tears leaking out of his eyes, and thinks he might be the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

When Dream looks back, George feels himself falling.

“It only took the biggest storm of the season, but I finally got you,” Dream says, a proud smile on his face. 

George forces himself to nod, and Dream bursts into another fit of giggles. 

“That was fun.”

“It was,” George replies honestly, hands clenching into the fabric of his hoodie. 

“I didn’t know you knew how to laugh,” Dream marvels, quieter now. George knows it’s a jab, but it sounds almost... fond. 

He scoffs. “Now what is that suppo-”

A clap of thunder makes them both jump before George can respond. Dream waits for it to pass and whistles. “Man, these Florida storms sure do come on quick. Were you able to finish up practice before it hit?”

George nods, deciding to forget the previous comment. “Just barely. I had to skip out on tutoring though,” he replies.

“You’re a tutor?” Dream asks, and George feels vaguely embarrassed.

“Er- no. I’m the one being tutored.”

“Oh,” Dream replies, unbothered, tapping out a pattern on the steering wheel. “What subject?”

“Math,” George grumbles. “I’ve been so busy with competitions coming up that I’ve totally slacked off and fallen behind.”

Dream hums thoughtfully. “I’m pretty good at math you know.”

The window wipers dance back and forth. Back and forth. George raises one eyebrow. “Sure you are.”

Dream looks offended, turning to face him fully. “I’m serious! I used to run a coding club with Sapnap and a few others when we were kids. We were about as skilled as you could be for a bunch of twelve year olds. Not to mention the fact that I was a tutor in high school.”

“No kidding?” George responds, folding his arms. “Impressive.”

Dream crosses his legs and leans back in his seat. “What can I say? I’m a multi talented individual.” 

George nods appreciatively, watching other cars fly by, a haze of water spraying out as they pass. The sounds have become therapeutic by now, blending with the whir of the heater and the sliding of the windshield wipers to create an oddly comforting symphony.

Dream worries his lip between his teeth. “I could uh, help you out?” He speaks up hesitantly, then hastily adds, “You know, just if you wanted.” 

George glances over at him in curious surprise. “Help me out?” 

Dream fumbles. “Like tutor you? Just for today I mean. Since you missed it.” The fingers tapping the wheel move faster. 

“Oh.” George blinks. “I mean, sure! If you don’t mind, that is.”

Dream’s whole body relaxes like air being let out of a balloon, expression brightening. “Great! Not at all! As in no, I don’t mind. At all. Cool.” 

“Cool.” George repeats, feeling strangely jittery. Neither of them says anything after that. George hums a random tune under his breath to fill the time, and waits for Dream to start the car. ...And waits. And waits. And-

“Are you gonna…?” George starts slowly, gesturing towards the keys still in the ignition.

Dream jolts. “Oh! Right. Sorry.” He quickly turns on the car with blocky movements, ears a bright scarlet. 

George looks down and smiles softly.

They peel away from the curb with Dream’s hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel, flushed bright red from head to toe. 

**********

Dream makes it half of the way to George’s apartment when George looks up in a panic.

“Oh uh, you’re going to my place!” He exclaims, unsure of why he thought otherwise.

Dream shoots him a sideways glance. “Yeah? Unless you wanted to work at mine.”

George’s eyes brighten. “Yes! I do. I mean- is that alright?” 

“Yeah, that’s fine by me,” Dream replies, pulling into the turn lane to flip around. George sighs in relief. 

Images of Callahan, Jack and Sam hovering over the pair at the kitchen table flash behind his eyes. He hasn’t brought a guy home in ages, and knows there will be hell to pay from his nosy roommates if he does so. 

“Great. Thank you,” George responds, running a tired hand down his face. “My place is just uh- really messy right now.”

Dream nods absentmindedly. “I see. Yeah it’s no problem.”

George thanks him, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth nervously, as Dream drives them in the opposite direction. In the flurry of trying to keep them away from his apartment, the thought hadn’t really settled that they are going to _Dream’s apartment_. George tries to ignore the implications of that thought.

It only takes an additional ten minutes to reach Dream’s dorm, which is just a stone's throw away from campus. He’s seen the building before when driving into town, but never been inside. 

“I warned Sapnap that we were coming, but I don’t think he’s even home.” Dream says.

“You room with Sapnap?” George asks in surprise. “I didn’t realize.”

Dream nods. “Mhm. Us and a few other guys. They won’t be a bother though. They’re all pretty chill.” 

George wonders what Sapnap will think, potentially seeing him at his front door, Dream in tow. He hopes desperately that Sapnap won’t tell Karl, otherwise he’ll never hear the end of it. 

“I’m not worried,” he says instead. 

Dream’s apartment is surprisingly neat for being inhabited by a bunch of rowdy college boys. A few unwashed dishes are stacked in the sink, but the countertops and floor are clear. 

“Sorry for the mess,” Dream says hastily, moving a stack of papers and pencils off of the small kitchen table. George tells him that it’s hardly a mess and Dream waves him off.

The living space is unadorned aside from a plain clock on the wall, and a few stray pieces of furniture. George isn’t sure what he expected. Jerseys tacked to the cupboards? An overflowing trash bag of beer cans?

“This is… nice,” he says, peeling off his wet socks and shoes in the entryway.

“Thanks,” Dream replies. “You’d think that after living here two years we’d have a few plants or a tablecloth, but I guess we’ve never gotten around to it.” 

“We don’t do much decorating at my place either,” George chuckles, rubbing his still cold arms. 

Dream takes notice of the action, then seems to realize for the first time the growing puddle at his feet. “Shoot. We should probably change first.”

“Good idea,” George says, reaching into his bag for the school clothes he had worn before practice. Dream starts toward what must be his bedroom.

George, to his shock, finds nothing. “Shit.”

He feels around every pocket and opening, moving his cheer uniform, wallet, and other necessities aside. No clothes.

Dream watches, one hand on the doorknob. “You good?”

George suddenly remembers tossing the extra clothes into his locker in a hurry to get to practice on time, having made a mental note to pick them up after tutoring. He tosses the bag down miserably. “I am an idiot.”

“Is something wrong?” Dream asks hesitantly.

George sighs. “I forgot my clothes at the school,” he mumbles.

“Huh?”

George gives the bag a weak kick and groans. “I put my extra clothes in my locker, thinking I could grab them later. Unfortunately for me, I did _not_ grab said clothes later.”

Dream’s eyebrows shoot upward and he mouths an _“oh.”_ They sit in uncomfortable silence for a long moment, before Dream speaks up.

“You could borrow some of mine?” 

George almost chokes. “What??”

When he looks up, Dream is avoiding eye contact, cheeks a healthy shade of pink. “I mean, I could probably find something-” the rest of the sentence dies in his throat as his eyes trail across George’s small form. Dream blushes further. “Okay maybe not something that fits... but I’m sure I have an extra T-shirt lying around.”

George feels his face grow hot, and he swallows hard. “Oh. Alright. That- uh… that would be great,” he manages weakly, trying not to think about _wearing Dream’s clothes._ Wearing _his_ clothes in _his_ apartment after riding home in _his_ car. It’s all too much.

Dream bites the inside of his cheek and gives an awkward thumbs up before disappearing into his room, leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake. 

George wants to zip himself inside his duffle bag and never come out.

Dream returns a few minutes later with a bundle of fabric tucked in his arms. “They’ll probably be a little big, sorry,” he admits. “But it was the best I could find.”

George eyes the clothes, accepting them numbly. “Thanks.”

“Bathroom is down the hall on your left,” Dream says, pointing. “You can change in there, then we’ll get started.”

George follows his directions, padding down the hallway begrudgingly, shoving down the fluttery feeling in his stomach. This is bad. This is very very bad.

As it turns out, Dream’s clothes are not “a little big.” They are huge. The worn out grey T-shirt hangs off him like a jumbo size trash bag, the hem almost brushing his knees. The logo across the front is so faded now, George can barely make it out. Some sort of club compensation gift he would guess. The sweatpants are even more of a problem, bunching in pools of soft fabric around his ankles. George thanks whatever god above that they at least have a cinch strap around the waist. He pulls the strings as tight as they will go and ties them together, praying that the knot will hold. He doesn’t feel like dropping his pants for Dream on this particular day. 

The worst is yet to come though, George finds as he tips his head down to take in the ensemble. As his chin brushes the worn shirt collar George can’t help but notice the shirt has the distinct smell of spice, and turf, and something else he can’t pinpoint. Of _Dream._ George thinks he might go mad.

Before he shuffles out of the bathroom, he looks at himself in the mirror. The collar of the shirt slips over one pale shoulder and he tugs it back on with pursed lips and a clenched jaw. 

This will have to do.

Dream is already at the kitchen table when he arrives, sipping from a mug of hot cocoa. He sees a similar mug resting in front of the open seat. Dream is wearing a deep green (at least George thinks it’s green) sweater and grey sweats, his hair starting to dry and curl at the tips. It looks fluffy and frizzy and some part of George wants to run his hands through it. 

Dream looks up as he comes around the corner and freezes, the cup still halfway lifted to his lips. He coughs as the drink goes down the wrong pipe. 

George tries not to feel self conscious, tugging at the loose fitting shirt collar again. Dream’s gaze is somewhere faraway, and he wets his lips. “Wow. They’re…”

“Not quite my size, yeah,” George retorts nervously, looking anywhere but where Dream is sitting there staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Mhm,” Dream replies absentmindedly, and George knows he doesn’t imagine the way Dream’s eyes rake over the exposed patch of skin where his collarbone meets his shoulder. He makes no move to cover it this time, allowing himself to burn under Dream’s gaze. His throat feels dry.

“Shall we?” George finally croaks, gesturing to the open notebooks on the table. 

Dream snaps out of it, shaking his head. “Yes, of course, sorry,” he says. Then as an afterthought adds, “I got you hot chocolate.” 

“Thanks,” George replies, sitting down at the opposite side of the table. He pulls out his latest failed math exam, sliding it across the table to Dream. He expects a low whistle at the score, or a backhanded comment, but Dream just looks over it calmly, tapping his pencil against his mouth. “You’re on the right track,” he hums, once he’s reached the end.

“Really?”

Dream, with his cheek resting in one hand, circles a few places on the worksheet with a red pen. “Yeah. It looks like you have the equations down for the most part, you’re just missing a step, which is throwing off your answers.”

George nods along, watching his hands as they glide across the paper. Dream has beautiful hands, he thinks absentmindedly. They are larger than his, the skin darker and tougher, but his fingers still delicate somehow, long and slender. 

“If you look here, you multiplied by _h_ before you multiplied by _f_ , which got you the wrong answer when it came time to divide. Swap those around and you should be good on most of them. Then if you look here, Question 6 is a bit different...”

Dream’s voice fades into a gentle rumble in the background as he continues to work through each problem one by one. George leans over on the table, sipping his hot chocolate and interjecting questions when necessary. Dream is surprisingly patient, and surprisingly good at math. George can’t help but admit that he leaves Dream’s dorm that night with a begrudging sense of respect for the man. 

Dream drives him home an hour later, though some part of George wants to stay longer. There’s something comforting about the sound of Dream’s voice, the way he speaks quicker when he gets wrapped up in an especially confusing explanation, then pauses and softens to check in and make sure George is following. He should have brought more homework.

George doesn’t complain this time when he gets in the car, nor do they tease each other into fits of giggles. Instead, they sit in companionable silence, only the sound of the blinker clicking filling the air. The rain has stopped by now, leaving the air thick and humid. George can almost taste it as he rolls down the driver side window and breathes it in. Dream watches as he lets his arm hang out, coasting on the wind as it rushes by. Dream watches him a lot, George notices.

George doesn’t go back to the math lab after that night.

It’s an unspoken agreement, this whole tutoring situation. George never explicitly agrees, but he starts waiting at the front doors of the school instead of walking home. Dream finds him there every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, coming around the front of his car to open the passenger door just as George reaches it. He would never admit it, but the gesture never fails to make his stomach flutter. 

They abide by a strict schedule… at first. Perhaps they could get through the assignments quicker if Dream didn’t insist on doing everything under the sun besides address George’s forgotten homework. He shows George the half finished projects he keeps under his bed- unidentifiable sculptures that have started to crack with age… song lyrics of which Dream has long since forgotten the tune, poetry scrawled on the back of chemistry tests that makes George blush and fiddle with his hands. He tells George more stories from his childhood, memories filled with sunlight, and beach trips, and family. George is warmed just listening to them.

Sometimes Dream cooks for them. He’s far better at math than he is at cooking, but that doesn’t stop him from trying out a new recipe every night, laughing loudly when George winces at the first bite. George brings his own recipes from home on occasion, nudging Dream away from the stove with one hip, and silently passing him a list of ingredients. They eat on the couch, always on the couch, with their feet kicked back on the small coffee table, and the fan turned on to full blast. 

Friday nights turn into movie nights. Another unspoken agreement. It all starts when George admits he hadn’t seen _Because of Winn Dixie_ , over a steaming bowl of homemade clam chowder. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that movie in my life,” George raises one eyebrow and Dream throws his hands up in the air in astonishment.

“You’re kidding! The dog one?”

George groans. “Oh no… it’s a dog movie?”

Dream rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Yes it’s a dog movie. And a damn good one at that. My older sister and I watched it so many times when we were younger that we broke the VHS.” 

George types something into his phone and slides it across the table with an overexaggerated grimace. “Oo, only 55% on Rotten Tomatoes, Dream. I’m seriously doubting your taste.”

“That’s a load of bullshit,” Dream replies, pushing the phone back without looking at it. “Watch it with me now and then you can decide for yourself,” he dares, pointing his spoon at George.

“We haven’t even gotten to my homework yet,” he chuckles and Dream folds his arms. 

“I’ll fill in all the answers for you if I have to, just please watch the movie. _Please_ , George. Just this once.”

“I’m not letting you cheat for me,” George responds, and Dream slouches. Then, with a sigh, he continues, “But… I guess I don’t have anything I need to be up early for tomorrow. So just this once, I’ll watch your dumb dog movie.”

Dream perks up immediately, standing up from his seat in excitement. “Really?”

George shakes his head, trying to hide the fondness. “Yes, really. But finish your food first. I didn’t slave away at it for an hour only for it to lay there cold and forgotten.”

Dream grins sheepishly and slides back into his seat, going back to eating. “Right. Of course.”

This time, there’s no bowl of popcorn between them when they sit down in front of the glowing TV, but George still feels a strange sense of deja vu. He sits on the farthest end of the couch from Dream, and spends the whole movie regretting it, aching to be closer.

Dream cries at the end, and though he could, George doesn’t laugh at him. Instead, he gets up and goes to the kitchen, coming back with a package of napkins, because he doesn’t quite know where to find tissues. Dream doesn’t seem to mind, accepting them with a watery, partially embarrassed smile. 

George doesn’t particularly like _Because of Winn Dixie_. He tells Dream it’s his new favorite dog movie anyways. Dream beams at that, and it’s worth it.

A month and a half into studying/dinner/movie nights, George sits one cushion closer to Dream. It’s a small gesture, but one that makes his pulse race. Even then, they don’t touch. But Dream doesn’t take his eyes off him the entire time, his Adam's apple bobbing occasionally whenever George catches him staring. 

Sapnap becomes accustomed to George’s presence in their living room. The first time he snickers at the two of them, making some offhand comment about “interrupting date night,” but after a few weeks, he simply waves, and asks George about school, and cheer, and life. He joins them sometimes, for games and movies and meals, brightening the atmosphere just by being in the room. George can see why Karl likes him. Sapnap is funny and easy going, knowing when to tease mercilessly, and when to sit back and listen. He’s a great storyteller, an expert at Uno, and loves rom-coms more than George and Dream combined. He makes George laugh so hard one time that he spits out his water mid swallow, which only serves to make Sapnap and Dream laugh even harder, Dream falling onto the floor and pounding his fist against it. George thinks it’s a shame they didn’t become friends sooner. 

He doesn’t tell Karl about the late night visits to Dream’s apartment, and makes Sapnap swear not to tell either. As much as he hates keeping secrets from Karl, whatever this _thing_ is with Dream is, it’s simply too hard to explain. 

Maybe it’s hard to explain, or maybe George just doesn’t _want_ to explain it. Because speaking the words aloud makes them real, because then he’ll have to _think_ about it, and thinking about _it_ always leaves George feeling confused, and jittery and uncertain. No, George doesn’t tell Karl that he spends his evenings sitting close, but not too close to Dream. Doesn’t tell him how he ignores the way his heart races when they stand side by side at the countertop in the early hours of the morning, washing dishes and whispering about broken dreams and things they’ll never have.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s close enough that George can see the freckles across the bridge of his nose, and the scar on his chin from falling off a skateboard when he was eight. He’s real, and vibrant, and a little worn down, and George doesn’t know how to handle it.
> 
> Because Dream… Dream is just looking at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your sweet comments, and to my awesome beta readers, @skiggswastaken and @gothtraits. All of your guys' feedback is what keeps me going, so don't hesitate to leave a comment!
> 
> Be warned that this chapter does contain brief homophobia, verbal abuse/bullying and vomiting. None of these things are described in detail, or take place for very long, but if any of this triggering to you please be aware and take care of yourself as needed.

George is three bites into their meal of chili and cornbread when he sets his glass down loudly and leans back, eyeing Dream across the table. “What?” He finally asks, exasperation tinging his tone. 

Dream’s gaze darts up. “What?” The other man repeats, a confused expression on his face. His food sits untouched.

George sighs, ducking under the table to gesture to Dream’s leg, which has been bouncing up and down rapidly for the past several minutes. “That.”

The bouncing stops and Dream makes a noncommittal hum. “I don’t know what you mean.”

George gives him an incredulous look. “You’re not eating.”

Dream shrugs in return and takes a bite of chili, the hint of a smile on his face. “Yes I am.” He gives a thumbs up. “Delicious. You’ve outdone yourself George.”

George shakes his head, raising an amused eyebrow. “You have something on your mind. Spit it out. I don’t think I can deal with _this_ ,” he gestures to Dream, who is picking at his cornbread smugly, “For the rest of the night. Whatever you have to say, get on with it.”

Dream tries to look innocent, but the smile on his face is threatening to burst. He twirls his spoon around the bowl. “It’s nothing really.”

“Well tell me your ‘nothing’ so you’ll stop fidgeting and actually finish your dinner.”

Dream shrugs again, casting his eyes towards the ceiling. He lets out what must be the longest, most annoying drawn out breath George has ever witnessed before speaking. “Oh you know… I’m just the new starting quarterback. That’s all.”

“What??”

With that, Dream whoops and pushes away from the table just as George jumps to his feet, hands slammed down on the wooden surface in surprise. 

“You- you what??” George repeats dumbly, eyes wide.

Dream throws both fists in the air triumphantly, practically bouncing in place. “You heard me! Number 22- Dream Bennett is _the_ new quarterback at Northview. The _it_ guy. The head honcho.”

George doesn’t know where the surge of utter excitement and glee comes from, but suddenly they’re both jumping and cheering, and George is throwing himself at the other man just as he reaches out to take his hands. 

“You’re moving up! You did it!” He shouts, gripping Dream by the forearms, as Dream laughs and nods rapidly. 

“The other guy is taking the rest of the season off because his wife is having a baby, any day now, so I’m filling in.”

Dream starts bouncing again and George’s hands are on his face and he’s babbling something like, “I can’t believe it! I mean I _can_ believe it- you’re very good, Dream- but as a sophomore? This is amazing! Just think of how much more playing time you’ll get! Oh I’m so proud of you!” And Dream is grinning from ear to ear and his cheeks and ears are pink and suddenly there’s nothing stopping them. They are free and weightless and the chili is getting cold and George doesn’t care as he spins away ecstatically. 

Dream watches and touches his cheek absentmindedly where George held him.

Sapnap comes out of his room, bleary eyed and confused, followed a minute later by Eret and Punz from their respective rooms. 

“What the hell is going on?” Sapnap mutters.

Dream and George talk over each other rapidly, explaining the very good reason they are shouting wildly in the kitchen at nine p.m. at night. Once the story is finished they all gasp and cheer and take turns clapping Dream on the back. The food stays forgotten in favor of a cheap bottle of wine toasted in plastic cups, and parading down the dorm halls with Dream on their shoulders until an R.A. steps out to yell at them to keep the noise down. 

They all sleep in a puddle on the shitty living room carpet. And George, wedged up between a snoring Dream and Sapnap, thinks this is the happiest he has been in a long time.

**********

He thinks Karl knows. Knows _what_ exactly he isn’t sure, but George can see the calculating look in his best friend’s eye when he tells him for the third time in a row that he can’t hang out because he has tutoring for the rest of the night. 

Really, he should just tell him. Just say, “Yeah, have I mentioned Dream and I kind of get along now, and he tutors me three times a week for no other reason than he wants to spend time with me, and sometimes he’s the last thing I think about when going to sleep, and the first thing I think about when waking up in the morning? No? I haven’t? Well…”

George winces. No. He can’t. He’s not ready to have _that_ conversation. It shouldn’t be that hard right? To never mention these little “more-than-tutoring” sessions until the day he dies? It has got to be easier than explaining it all to Karl. 

So he doesn’t. He doesn’t, and he feels a little bit like he’s living a double life. It leaves him feeling guilty, but also a little bit thrilled. 

His car gets back from the shop and he keeps waiting for Dream’s truck to pull up after practice, even though he doesn’t need a ride. He texts Dream dumb jokes he found online to make him laugh, and spends his breaks after school looking up ingredients and new recipes. 

And then the facade breaks. It’s an ordinary Friday, and Dream has to go help his grandparents move into a new house, so they forego the usual movie night. With his newly empty schedule, George shoots a quick text to Karl saying he can make it to hang out with everyone. 

He hasn’t seen them all together in a while now, so he’s looking forward to catching up on Quackity’s latest chaotic escapades and Bad’s endless ugly pictures of his dogs. Dream sends him off with well wishes, asking for George to say hi on his behalf, and invite the group over for dinner and a movie next Friday at his place. 

George nods, entirely forgetting the _other_ thing Dream sends him off with- that is until he walks in the door of Karl’s apartment. 

“What are you wearing?” Karl questions the instant he is through the threshold. 

George looks down. 

Oh no.

Quackity lets out a cackle and chimes in with, “Oooo… where’s the jacket from Gogy?? Do you have a secret boyfriend you haven’t been telling us about?” He claps his hands and throws his head back with laughter, watching George’s mortified expression. 

Karl hums, narrowing his eyes. “You know, that is a very good question, Quackity. I am definitely looking forward to George’s response.”

George feels his face grow hot, hastily tugging the oversized varsity jacket off his shoulders and hanging it over the nearby chair. He desperately hopes they won’t recognize it. 

“I took the wrong one,” he says lamely, trying to make it sound natural. He avoids Sapnap’s confused stare across the room.

“What do you mean?” Karl asks and George swallows.

“I was in a hurry to get over here after practice, and I guess I accidentally grabbed some random football player’s jacket instead of mine.” He chuckles nervously. “I’m sure they’ll be really confused when they try on theirs only to find out it’s three sizes too small.” 

Quackity giggles at the image, and Bad hums in understanding. “Oh that makes sense. Poor guy.”

“We’ll just have to keep an eye out for some football jock in a cheer sweater on Monday,” Quackity adds. 

Sapnap smirks and George shoots him a warning look. “Guess so,” he says cheekily. 

Karl looks between George and Sapnap with a look that he can’t quite read. “I’ll just have to have _my_ football player do a little investigation into the culprit,” he says pointedly, narrowing his eyes at Sapnap, who gulps and turns pink. 

“I’m sure there’s no need for that,” George responds weakly, but Karl waves him off.

“No no, I’ve got to get to the bottom of who this jacket belongs to. It’s really very important, George, I’m sure you can understand.”

George resists the urge to groan. Well now he’s done for. He curses Dream for offering the jacket in the first place. He was only a little cold, and would have been fine without it, but Dream insisted, tossing it to him and refusing to take it back as he drove away. And look where that got him.

“Can we just talk about something else,” George groans in exasperation, and Karl seems to give up temporarily, offering George an Oreo and crossing to the couch to sit by Sapnap. 

Sapnap raises his eyebrows at George as if to say, _“Good luck,”_ before putting his arm around Karl. 

Bad deals out five decks of cards and waves George over, who complies. 

“Aw man, not Uno,” Quackity whines. “Sapnap always wins at Uno.”

Sapnap shrugs and smirks. “What can I say?” Karl scoffs and swats him goodnaturedly.

George takes a hand of cards and grins, taking a seat on the floor. “Don’t worry Q, we can play Apples to Apples after this so you can kick all of our asses.”

Quackity pumps one fist and settles into his chair, putting up the foot rest, satisfied for the time being. 

George begins sorting his cards absentmindedly. 

This is fine. It will be fine. He’ll just return the jacket on Monday and everyone will forget it ever happened. 

“Starting color is yellow,” Bad says, flipping over the top card. “Who’s up first?”

**********

Karl stops George on his way out, inches away from freedom. 

“Not so fast,” he says, catching George by the arm. “I just want to talk.”

George winces, letting himself be pulled back to the room. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

Karl takes a seat at the kitchen table, leaving George to slump down beside him. “I’m not gonna lecture you or anything,” he chuckles, and George lays his head down on the cool surface in defeat. 

“I know,” George admits, avoiding eye contact. He wants to tell Karl. He really does… just doesn’t want the complications that come with it. He should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret for long though. 

Karl stretches, splaying his hands out. “So… there’s a guy?”

George screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. “No. There’s not a guy.”

Karl hums and places his hand on George’s head, running fingers through his hair absentmindedly. “Okay… well where did you get the jacket?”

George huffs. “... A guy.”

“Interesting,” Karl replies, and George can hear the smile in his voice. Though he wants to resist, everything about Karl is soothing. The slow movements of his hand in George’s hair, his even, non judgemental tone… he feels his barriers breaking down with each second that passes. It’s hard to keep anything from him. 

“Ok, so there’s maybe, kind of a guy,” George gives in. “But it’s nothing really. I just… we just… I don’t know.” 

Karl waits for further explanation that doesn’t come before continuing. “Okay. That’s alright.” He pauses, thinking. “Well, tell me about this ‘nothing.’ You’re clearly very worked up about it.”

George traces a finger up and down his arm, trying to find the right words. How does he go about explaining this? And on top of that, Karl’s right- if it’s nothing, why _is_ he so worked up about it? Because he had initially talked shit about Dream and is now being forced to come to terms that he might have been wrong? Because it’s Sapnap’s best friend, and neither of them have told Karl? 

He settles with, “It’s complicated.”

Karl laughs. “It’s a guy. Of course it’s complicated.”

George smiles softly at that, finally looking up at Karl for a moment. “I guess I just don’t know how to feel about him yet?” He chews on his lip nervously. “I feel like I still can’t get a read on him.”

“Do you like him?”

As what? A friend? A math tutor? A potential boyfriend?

“I don’t know if I should like him,” George answers carefully. “He kind of has a bad reputation.”

“Because he’s a football player?” Karl raises one eyebrow, gesturing towards the varsity jacket. “They’re not all bad you know. Trust me.” He chuckles. 

“It’s not that. It’s just… I don’t know. It’s like he’s two different people. One of them is this big-headed, dumb, asshole jock that hangs out with a bunch of jerk-offs that could really use a kick to the nose.”

Karl leans his own head down on the table so he’s facing George. “And the other?” 

George sighs reluctantly. “The other... picks me up when it’s raining… and works hard to cook me really shitty meals, and shows me dumb movies, and dumb poems, and… and…” He trails off, feeling more confused than when he started. 

“Whoever he is, he seems like he cares about you a lot.” Karl replies, tilting his head slightly. He reaches one arm out and pulls George in for a hug. 

George doesn’t resist, burying his face in the warm sweater.

Karl continues. “But I also trust your judgement. If you think he’s gonna screw you over, then I don’t want you getting hurt. There will always be guys out there with lousy cooking skills after all.” He pokes George, who giggles under his breath.

“You’re right,” he says somewhat shakily. “As usual.”

“As usual,” Karl repeats, ruffling his hair.

They sit there in comfortable silence for another moment before Karl speaks again. “And you know, it’s fine that you don’t want to introduce him now,” he starts, and the little bit of guilt in the pit of George’s stomach returns. “But when you are ready, and if it ends up working out, I’d love to meet him,” Karl says, and George tucks his head in a small nod. 

“Of course,” he replies, not meeting Karl’s eyes. “I’ll be sure to bring him around.”

**********

Some little part of George doesn’t want to give the varsity sweater back. As much trouble as it has caused, it’s warm, and smells like Dream, and in a way, it’s a distinct reminder that someone cares. Someone is looking out for him. 

But it’s not his, and Dream is _not his_ , so George finds himself sitting in the bleachers, watching the football team finish practice, ready to hand over the jacket as soon as they are finished. 

It’s a particularly cool November day, and the faint breeze is just enough for George to keep the sweater on for the time being, instead of in his lap. It’s not a big deal. It’s cold, (well, cool at least), and Dream did give him the jacket so why wouldn’t he put it to use?

Still, it feels different wearing it here in public, as opposed to on the lonely walk up to his apartment late at night. 

Schlatt blows the whistle as they finish their last scrimmage, shouting something to the team and shooing them away. The football players disassemble, grabbing water bottles and helmets and running over to the other end of the metal stands where they have dumped the rest of their gear. 

Dream catches his eye almost immediately, breaking into a wide smile and waving from his place on the field. George waves back as the jersey-clad figure he begins to jog towards him. A few other players trail behind, smacking Dream on the back and chattering about the upcoming playoff game. 

Dream slows his pace to a walk once he reaches the track and George stands, going to meet him. 

“You guys looked great out there,” he starts, nodding his head encouragingly. 

Dream’s companions slow their pace just a bit, eyeing George with interest. 

Dream gets halfway through a “thank you,” before one of his teammates, a dark haired boy George doesn’t recognize, buts in. 

“We looked great, huh?” He smirks, hovering over Dream’s left shoulder, wiping at the sweat clinging to his forehead. 

George frowns and the smaller boy beside Dream chuckles, covering his overly wide mouth with one hand and raising an eyebrow.

“What do you mean…?” He questions and the taller one folds his arms. 

“I mean, I noticed you were watching us play, but I think you may have the wrong idea.”

George feels his stomach sink. Oh. “No, that’s not what I-” he fumbles.

“Hey, hey, don’t worry. We understand- George? Is it?”

George feels his throat closing and tries to force out a reply, to no avail. 

Dream looks between them, brows furrowed, mouth set in a hard line. “Guys. Quit it,” he mumbles, which only seems to amuse them more. 

“It’s really just us being polite that we let him know our _preferences_ now,” the boy with the too-wide smile says under his breath. “Wouldn’t want George here getting the wrong idea and getting his hopes up.” 

Stupid. That’s all this is. Just a bunch of stupid boys with their stupid words and their stupid jokes that aren’t all that funny. He feels squeamish.

Dream takes a step towards the smaller boy, who’s eyes widen ever so slightly. Before Dream can say anything though, the leader claps one sweaty palm on his shoulder. “You know we’re only teasing, Bennett,” he cuts in, tone laced with fake sincerity. “No need to get all up in arms. We would never want to upset your little boyfriend.”

Dream flinches ever so slightly, and grits his teeth. “He’s _not_ my boyfriend.” 

And it’s true. So why...

George tries repeatedly to swallow the lump in his throat, his skin feeling hot all over. He doesn’t know _why_ the comment stings. He’s not Dream’s boyfriend. He’s not... so why does it feel like a betrayal? Why does he feel like he’s just been slapped?

“Then why’s he wearing your jacket?” The dark haired boy snarls, and George glances down at himself. A feeling of nausea and panic washes over him and suddenly his only conscious thought is _Get. It. Off. Get it off, and get away._

Before he can see the horror and embarrassment flood Dream’s face at the comment, he rips the offending piece of clothing off, peeling it away from his skin like it burns. And it does. He’s burning. He’s burning alive along every inch of skin and all he can do is look at the ground and toss the sweater as hard as he can into the dirt. 

He meets Dream’s eyes with a glare.

“I didn’t ask for it,” George spits- to Dream, or his teammates, or himself he doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t wait for the blonde’s reaction, walking away in the opposite direction as quickly as he can manage, hot tears pricking the backs of his eyes. 

**********

George makes it in the doorway of his apartment, hoping to never see another human being again.

To his dismay, Callahan already at the kitchen table, eyebrows quirked in a vaguely nervous, questioning expression at his demeanor. 

_“Is everything o-”_

George swallows a scream of frustration, dropping his back in entryway with a loud _thump._

He scours his muddled brain for the right words, unable to conjure up any coherent sentences. 

He settles for, _“Fuck. Bad. Bad bad men. Bad day. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”_

Callahan only looks more shocked, and more confused. 

An angry sob escapes, and George shrugs, unable to get out anything else. 

Leaving his bag slung front of the door, George storms past the table to his bedroom, slamming the door. 

_Fuck. Bad. Bad bad men. Bad day. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

No kidding.

**********

George doesn’t speak to Dream for two weeks. 

Texts and calls build up, but George ignores them, tossing his phone across the room and rolling over in bed. Karl calls too- the next day- and Bad, and even Wilbur, but he can’t bear to hear the pity in their voice when he tells them why he’s been ignoring them. The anger. He has too much of that rolling around inside him already. 

He doesn’t show up at school at first. Or practice. Puffy texts him asking what’s wrong and he tells her he’s sick, unable to get out of bed. 

Which isn’t quite a lie. The first night, he cried until he threw up, body overwhelmed and exhausted and unable to handle the events of the evening. 

George feels weak. Here he is, shuddering over a toilet bowl over a _boy_ , and the fact that said boy’s stupid friends decided to pick on him. He’s been through this before. When you’re small in middle school, you get bullied. When you’re small, and like boys instead of girls, you get bullied worse. He’s gone through that shit already and come out stronger for it. He’s found people who love and accept him as is.

So why does this still hurt so much? He’s a junior in college, but suddenly he’s thirteen again, coming home crying to his mother because of some offhand comments thrown around a P.E. locker room. Except his mother isn’t here. And this cramped dorm room hardly feels like a home. 

Maybe he should call her. 

But then Alice’s face from a month ago is in his mind… disappointed, and sad, and afraid, and George doesn’t think he can handle any more of that right now. 

So instead he sleeps. And tries to rehydrate. Tries to get better. 

He comes back to cheer two days later.

He lets Karl and Quackity take him out to lunch three days later. 

One week later he sits down with Callahan on the twin bed in his room and apologizes, calmly relaying the story one piece at a time. 

He gets better. 

So why does it still hurt?

**********

Two weeks feels like a very long time. 

It’s only six Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays that he doesn’t wait at the front doors of the school, but it still feels like a lifetime since he last sat on that front step, smiling fondly at the sound of an old sputtering truck engine approaching. 

He watches movies alone, and cooks meals alone, and drives too and from the math lab alone, and it never felt this lonely before. 

Karl asks. And maybe he already knows- maybe Sapnap told him and he’s just trying to bait an answer out of George- but George stays quiet about that cool November day after football practice. He tells himself it’s to prevent things from turning into an ordeal, because really, it’s _not that big of a deal_. But another part of him says it’s because he’s scared. Scared to admit he cared, and got hurt and hasn’t changed since those middle school years. 

Eight days later, he does call his mother. He doesn’t tell her about boys he might have been a little bit in love with, and other boys that made him cry and hurt and feel small. But he does apologize for overreacting before. And tells her his math scores are improving.

She invites him to come home for Thanksgiving dinner. He accepts. 

Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays pass and George finds that he can go sometimes hours at a time without thinking of Dream. He can laugh, and study, and lead practices. 

But he doesn’t delete the unread messages. And one night, he watches _Because of Winn Dixie_ alone in the confines of his dark room. 

He cries at the end. 

**********

The weekend before the week of Thanksgiving, Dream plays his first game as starting quarterback. 

The reminder on George’s phone saying as much makes him jump, and he stares at it for a long time before swiping off. He forgot to delete it.

A part of George wishes he could just not go, but he knows he can’t ditch the team like that. For them, he can at least pretend to be strong and composed. 

So George gets dressed, eats a full breakfast, and goes to class as if it’s any other ordinary day. When school is over- leaving a couple hours until the game- he fights the urge to nap, opting instead to drive over and help Quackity with his urgent math homework. Quackity only gets three problems done, but he makes George laugh- makes him forget his worries for a little bit. Makes him forget that tonight, whether he likes it or not, he’s going to have to see Dream again. 

He wonders if Dream is nervous. He wonders if he stayed up last night, unable to sleep, like he used to tell George would happen before big games. 

He wonders if Dream is thinking about seeing him again. If Dream will be looking for him. 

He hopes Dream will do well. That hope surprises him, but it’s genuine, welling up in George’s chest as he watches the football team jog out to the field, the wild, chanting crowd at their back. 

He pinpoints Dream immediately. His gait is too familiar now. George can’t take his eyes off him. If the new quarterback is nervous, he doesn’t look it. He moves into position with confidence and ease, the rest of the players getting into formation around him. 

The whistle blows. The ball is thrown. And the game begins.

The first half flies by without issue. George watches tensely as the both sides of the scoreboard inch up little by little, each team rising to meet each other time and time again. By halftime, Northview has a one point lead, and the team seems just as sure as ever that they will hold onto it, banking on cinching more points in the other two quarters. 

Dream plays smart and safe as quarterback, which George can’t help but think, isn’t like him at all. 

“So he is nervous,” he murmurs to himself, taking a water break after finishing their halftime performance. 

By the third quarter, Northview’s resolve starts to crack. They let a touchdown in, trailing behind on the scoreboard at 20-27. Schlatt starts pacing.

The adoring fans in the stands grow anxious, muttering and shouting about bad referee calls and needing to get the lead before the fourth quarter. 

Fourth quarter comes, and Northview crawls their way up the field for another touchdown, but misses what should be an easy field goal. George starts chewing on his nails nervously. 

Two minutes left. One point down. 

George feels shaky just watching. He leads another cheer pumping up the offense, and for once wishes he could go sit in the stands instead. He’d much rather be watching from up in the highest corner, tucked in a blanket with his friends. George watches Dream’s every move, clenching his jaw every time he gets driven back before they can make a play up the field. They need him now. They need _something, anything_ now. 

The clock ticks down painstakingly slow. George wills it to move faster. For the game to be over with. He clenches and unclenches jittery fists. 

Then… it happens. 

George sees the opening just as Dream does… just as the rest of the crowd does. He can practically hear them hold their breath. The figure adorned in green darts up the field, one hand up for a pass, an opposing player hot on his tail trying to shove him out of bounds. Dream tracks the movement, backing up, trying to gauge if he can make the throw. 

This is his chance. This is where he stops being scared, and finally goes for it. This is where he shows them all what he can do, what he’s been prepared to do. But still, George can almost feel the hesitation in the way he dances back and forth, bobbing his head to try and see past the wall of bodies. Why is he hesitating? Why is he afraid? He _can_ do this. George knows he can.

“Now, Dream!” The shout tears out of him before he can think twice, holding both fists in the air encouragingly. 

And really, above the roar of the crowd, and the sound of helmets and bodies colliding, no one should have been able to hear it. No one should have been able to pick out that one little holler. 

So _why_ is Dream turning?

Why is Dream looking at him?

George watches with a rising sense of panic and horror as Dream’s whole body deflates a little, the arm holding the football faltering from its place about to execute the throw. George shakes his head rapidly and shouts desperately for him to turn back around, but the damage has been done. Within seconds, Dream is pummeled from two different sides at once, knocked back to the ground with a sickening thud. 

With a little over a minute on the clock, Dream has lost his first game. 

**********

The team shuffles back to their locker room with heads hung low and shoulders hunched. The crowd is uncharacteristically quiet, people muttering and grimacing as they collect their things and head for the exits. 

Schlatt follows the team silently. George wonders if they’ll get yelled at. If Dream will get yelled at. He feels apprehension and sorrow bubble in the pits of his stomach. He hopes not. 

George also wonders if he should feel guilty for speaking up. For distracting Dream. But he knows… he knows anyone else would have been able to ignore that call. He knows that if Dream had been his usual self, he wouldn’t have hesitated on that throw in the first place. He’s not his usual self, and though George would like to pretend he doesn’t, he has a strong feeling as to why. 

He wants to run. He wants to pack up his things without another thought and forget this night ever happened, the same way he forgot that _other_ night ever happened. But something keeps him there. For ten… twenty minutes… keeps him anchored to that stadium, unable to leave. Karl and Sapnap find him, asking if he wants to go grab an ice cream to cheer themselves up, and he declines, saying he’s going to stay for a little while longer and talk to Wilbur. 

He’s not going to talk to Wilbur.

He asks after Dream, and Sapnap grimaces and shrugs. “I didn’t see him in the locker room. Probably packed up and went home early. I can’t blame him,” he replies. “I’m gonna check in with him once I get home. I hope he’s doing okay.” 

George nods numbly, thanking Sapnap and giving a weak wave as he and Karl disappear from view. 

Despite the knowledge that Dream is probably long gone, and that there’s nothing he can do… George stays. Twenty-five, thirty minutes pass, and for some god forsaken reason he’s still there… knees curled under him, waiting for a familiar tall, blonde figure to leave.

He has no plan for if Dream actually turns up. Has no idea what he will say, or if Dream will even listen to him at all. But he stays.

Thirty… forty minutes. 

Dream doesn’t appear. 

The fans leave. He sends Puffy and Wilbur on their way, assuring them his car is in working condition now and he won’t get stranded like last time.

After forty-five minutes, George stands up, fully intending to call it a night and head towards his car. He fully intends to leave- that’s the plan- so why is he walking towards the locker room? 

His feet carry him there without thinking, pushing forward one step at a time even though there is immeasurable anxiety building in the pit of his stomach. 

He has no obligation to check up on him. He knows. He knows he doesn’t need to be here right now, and he doesn’t need to see Dream okay before he goes home and he doesn’t need to apologize for saying his name out on that field. But he’s here nonetheless. He still walks through that unlocked door.

The locker room is empty by now- the only signs of life being a few wayward socks and a forgotten water bottle or two. George’s footsteps echo off the tiles, making the whole space seem dead and eerie. He runs his hands along the cool metal lockers, wondering absentmindedly which one is Dream’s. 

He doesn’t know what he expected to find. Dream in the middle of packing up, maybe? Or getting lectured by Schlatt, or getting consoled by a few teammates? George doesn’t find any of those things.

It takes a few minutes of wandering before he picks up on the slightest sound of movement... the barely-there fluttering of one of the closed shower curtains. The culprit quiets just as quickly as they began, and George initially wonders if he imagined it. 

He steps closer to the shower stall with light steps. The water isn’t on, despite the curtain being drawn tightly across the front, obscuring the person inside from view. George can just barely see parts of the curled-up form peeking out from underneath the white material. 

“Dream?” George starts carefully, and the figure intakes a sharp breath. 

George knows it's him without even asking, but he does it anyway.

Dream shuffles ever so slightly further back from the opening, and George winces. 

“It’s me,” he says, and can almost imagine Dream pressing his lips together and looking away. 

He waits for a response that he knows isn’t coming. Because maybe if he doesn’t respond, George will leave him to his grief and embarrassment and shame. 

And in the end… maybe that’s for the best. Maybe this was all a bad idea to begin with and he should go home and leave this to Sapnap, and pretend he was never here in the first place. 

George stands there for a quiet moment, then does just that. With a short nod, he turns back the way he came, taking one, two, three steps across echoing porcelain. Until something stops him.

_“Stay.”_

Dream’s raw, trembling voice comes as a surprise, making George pause mid-step, looking over his shoulder.

Another word. Equally hesitant. Equally broken. 

“Please.”

That’s all he needs to unsling the duffel from his shoulder, place it on one of the benches, and pad his way back to Dream. After a second of deliberation, George lowers himself to the floor beside the curtain, tucking his knees up and resting his chin atop them. He glances to the side, wondering if Dream is watching him through red, swollen eyes. 

It feels familiar. He smiles sadly.

The silence stretches on for what feels like hours as George tries to find the right thing to say. Tries to sort out a mess of apologies, and condolences, and accusations, and encouragement that ultimately come out to him opening his mouth and shutting it again, the words dying in his throat. 

Finally, he speaks. And his voice comes out small at first, bouncing off the walls and giving it an odd quality. 

“I don’t know if you knew, but I’m colorblind.” He says, and it’s not at all what he expected but it somehow feels just right. His voice picks up in strength and volume. “Which is funny, because you talked about that whole traffic light thing once, and well, you’re right, it is a pain, but we can still tell them apart from the light.”

Dream doesn’t respond, but George thinks he might be smiling softly at that, chin tucked up against his arms.

“It was kinda dumb how we found out, actually. I was probably… I don’t know-” he pauses to count out the year on his fingers, “-Four? And I drew this picture, like all four year olds do… with the sun in the corner, and the grass, and flowers, and butterflies with smiley faces… except-” he laughs under his breath. “Except I ended up making all the grass and the leaves and trees red. And my mum, being, well, _my mum_ , thought it was some sort of sign that I was disturbed, and took me to a child therapist to see if she had failed at raising me and turned me psychopathic.” George shrugs. “The therapist figured it out pretty quick. Turns out I was just red-green colorblind.”

Dream shifts ever so slightly closer, and George can hear his steady breathing. In… and out. In… and out. It’s soothing.

He continues. “Yeah, my mum has always been kind of like that. There was this one time, see, when she thought my brother had some rare illness in his internal organs that would leave him dead within a week, but really he had just eaten some of the cat’s food and gotten an upset stomach.” George shakes his head, grinning. “We still tease her for it, even now. She hates it, but she laughs with us anyways. We’re all a little bit like that. We pretend to hate each other’s guts, but in the end, we love each other a lot.”

They sit there like that for what feels like hours, with George rambling off random stories about his family, and eccentric school teachers, and childhood friends he hasn’t talked to in years. Dream listens silently, and George finds he doesn’t mind, simply glad to be in his presence again. It feels right. 

He’s just finishing telling how he broke his wrist from falling off the monkey bars in primary school when the slow swish of fabric at his right makes him pause mid-word, the breath leaving his lungs.

The curtain is pushed aside, and suddenly Dream is right there, and all of a sudden George feels like he can’t breathe. He’s close enough that George can see the freckles across the bridge of his nose, and the scar on his chin from falling off a skateboard when he was eight. He’s real, and vibrant, and a little worn down, and George doesn’t know how to handle it.

Because Dream… Dream is just looking at him.

George feels like he is suspended in the air, his stomach waiting for the drop of plunging back to earth. Dream’s eyes are warm, and open, and intense, and George feels like he’s never been _seen_ like this before. Never had someone look at him like he’s the most wonderful, and interesting, and beautiful thing in the room. It’s exhilarating, and terrifying and he doesn’t know what to say. He just needs Dream to stop looking at him _like that_ , so he can breathe again and maybe come up with a coherent way to respond. 

Dream doesn’t. 

Instead he searches every line of George’s face as if he’s memorizing it, drinking in every inch like he’s seeing him for the first time. 

And then Dream’s arms are wrapped around him, pulling him in.

George gasps, planting one hand on the tile to brace himself as he falls into the embrace. The position is awkward, and his wrist hurts from smacking against the hard tile, and he doesn’t care, clutching the other man to him and after a moment, rubbing soothing circles into his back. Dream mumbles choked apologies into his neck, repeating the words over and over and over like a prayer. 

George whispers assurances and runs his fingers through the tangled, greasy knots of his hair, and the hurt inside finally untwists itself, just a little bit. 

**********

They fall back into a routine that’s all the same and entirely different as it used to be. They study, and eat dinner, and watch movies together, but now it’s with Karl and Quackity and Bad, and sometimes even Callahan. They drive in separate cars now, but don’t hesitate to be near each other… the space on the couch dwindling to nothing as thighs press against thighs and shoulders lean on shoulders. Dream looks at him with soft eyes and speaks with a soft tone, and sometimes accidentally brushes him with soft hands and George marvels how it was ever any different. George unabashedly wonders if his lips are soft too.

At some point they convince Karl that Sapnap doesn’t want to hold his hand and spend time with him “as bros,” and the two finally go on their first official date after months of thinly veiled “hang outs.” George sends Karl off with a giddy hug, and a teasing message for Sapnap to “take good care of him, and have him home before one a.m. -or else.” Karl laughs and promises to pass on the message. 

Dream and George study alone that night, and it’s quiet, but comfortable. They order takeout- too exhausted to cook- and George doesn’t even finish his meal before he’s asleep on the table, cheap wooden chopsticks still in hand. 

Dream chuckles under his breath, putting the food and the chopsticks back in the fridge and waking up George just long enough to hoist him into his arms and carry him to the couch. George complies blearily, wrapping his arms around Dream’s neck and resting his head against his chest. Dream mumbles something about saving homework for another day and tucks a pillow under George’s head. George nods in hazy agreement, already feeling himself drift off. 

In the moments before unconsciousness, he feels a blanket settle over his shoulders, and a soft caress against his cheek. 

It’s gone before George can even process it, but he smiles nonetheless, skin still tingling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come brain-rot with me on Twitter if you'd like [here!](https://twitter.com/_GraceWrites_)


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